The Man
by MrsCumberbatch
Summary: The entire Nation is at its knees. John Watson, The Master, professionally known as 'The Man' has in his possession very compromising photographs that could destroy the most powerful family in Britain and Sherlock Holmes' name has arisen. RE-OPENED!
1. John Watson, The Man

**Title:**

**"The Man"**

**Summary:**

**The entire Nation is at his knees. John Watson, The Master, professionally known as _The Man_ is on the possession of very compromising photographs that could destroy the most powerful family in Britain and Sherlock Holmes' name has arisen.**

**Rated:**

**M**

**Genre:**

**Drama/Romance**

**Warnings:**

**Mention of sexual situations, sex scenes, spoilers of ASiB. **

**Disclaimer:**

**Neither Sherlock (BBC) nor the respective characters belong to me.**

**Author's Note:**

**This is completely based on the first chapter of season two of Sherlock. If you haven't seen it, don't read this! Not an English speaker, I apologise beforehand for any mistake.  
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* * *

><p>"My employer has a problem."<p>

Before Sherlock Holmes could have asked, a man seated next to his brother expressed the motive of his required visit to the Palace which represents the very heart of the British Nation.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature and in this hour of need you, my dear brother, your name has arisen," Mycroft, the older Holmes said, keeping his diplomatic and straight face.

Sherlock looked at him. "You have a whole secret service, why come to me? The police force of sorts, even the marginally secret service."

"This is a matter of highest security and therefore of trust."

The man next to Mycroft made a little gesture, and the older Holmes opened his suitcase and handed Sherlock a picture. "What do you know about this man?"

Sherlock Holmes only looked at it. It was a picture of a blond, blue-eyed man. He had short hair and pale complexion. "Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you should be paying more attention. He's been in the center of two political scandals in the last year and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants, separately."

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is he?" asked Sherlock, still holding the picture.

"John Watson. Professionally known as _The Man_."

Sherlock frowned. "Professionally?"

"There are many names for what he does. He prefers _Master_."

"Master..."

The word seemed to struggle in the detective's mouth, and Mycroft smiled. "Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex."

"Sex _doesn't_ alarm me."

Sherlock used to believe sex was something that would never alarm him.

Until now.

"How would _you_ know?"

A few seconds of silence and Mycroft handed him a brown envelope with more photographs. "He provides, shall we say, _recreational scolding_ for those who enjoy that sort of things and are prepared to pay for it. These are from his website."

The envelope had pictures of John Watson, the Master, wearing provocative underwear and a riding crop, in many suggestive positions. Offering what he does. There was also an inscription:

_"Some are born to rule,_

_Some are forced to serve._

_When you worship at the feet of the world, _

_You will be in the presence of your God._

_You will whimper. You will cry. You will feel every hit,_

_Physically and mentally._

_You will know when you are beaten."_

"And I assume this Watson man has some compromising photographs," said Sherlock as he placed the photographs into the brown envelope.

"You're very quick, Mister Holmes," said the man sitting next to his brother, impressed. Certainly he didn't know in depth anything about Sherlock Holmes' brilliant, magnificent brain.

"Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?"

The man looked down, clearly embarrassed, hurt. Everything was about a person of significance to the man who clearly was working for the family for most of his life. "A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

Sherlock curled his lips, looking at the man until Mycroft spoke again. "I can tell you is a young person... a young female person," explained Mycroft Holmes, not pleased by the requirements of information of his younger brother.

"How many photographs?"

"A considerable number, apparently."

"Do Mister Watson and this young female person appear in these photographs together?"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, they do. In an imaginative range, we are assured."

"And I assume in a number of very compromising scenarios."

"Can you help us, Mister Holmes?"

"How?"

"Will you take the case?"

Now he was enjoying it. The man was desperate as Mycroft. Two men, probably both were the left and the right hand of the most important old lady in the country and they were practically begging for his help. "What case? Pay him now and in full -"

"He doesn't want anything. He got in touch. He informed us the photographs existed. He indicated that he has no intention to use them to exhort either money or favour," explained Mycroft and Sherlock smiled.

"Oh, a _power play_? A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a Master. Oh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

Sherlock Holmes loved to play games. He loved mysteries. He loved to prove how clever he could be and how clever he was. And this game, this particular game was good enough for him. He stood up from his place in that fancy and posh sofa ready to leave. Ready to play the game. "Where is he?"

"He's in London. He's staying at -"

"Text me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day. Laterz!"

* * *

><p>John Watson really missed London. He could see, appreciate its characteristic cloudy sky, the red buses, the dark cabs. His driver was glancing at him at every minute, when his BlackBerry went off. His sources were working as he expected. They sent him the pictures of his new enemy.<p>

Pictures of Sherlock Holmes.

He smiled at them. This was getting fun.

Once the car pulled in front of his place, he ran directly to his room. His navy blue suit and his striped tie wasn't good enough to receive the famous Sherlock Holmes. Because John Watson knew he was going after him. He was coming for the photographs.

"Kate. We are going to have a visitor. I'll need a bit of time to get ready."

A red haired woman appeared and smiled at him, while crossing her pale legs and standing in the door frame of his room. "Is he good?"

"A bit not good," replied John as he started removing his clothes.


	2. Battle Dress

There were moments when Mrs Lestrade kicked out his husband from their house because the Detective Inspector couldn't (or didn't want) to leave his office/work. And, what a coincidence, she kicked him out the same day Sherlock started working and tracking Mister Watson's steps. This time, Greg assured him it was definitive when he arrived at 221 B Baker Street carrying a heavy bag with his belongings.

Sherlock Holmes was capable enough to live by himself. Mrs Hudson, the landlady was like his housekeeper. Well, like his mother actually, making him tea, lunch, breakfast, dinner... and even cleaning his flat, making his bed and washing his clothes. Even his underwear. He didn't need a flatmate. But the one who needed him to have a flatmate was Mycroft. And it was even better if the man was a Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard with a license to use a gun and a police board.

"I'm happy you're here, Detective Inspector. You're always welcome," said Mrs Hudson as she opened the front door for him. "Sherlock's upstairs, not sure what he is doing but after he came this morning he has been making a mess with his clothes."

"His clothes?" Lestrade climbed the stairs, still carrying his bag and glanced at the Detective's room. He could see piles of shirts and pants all over the floor, but Sherlock was wearing only his dark suit, his long coat and his blue scarf.

"I see Mycroft sent you here."

"My wife -"

"Your wife is not having another affair with that PE teacher. Spare me the explanations and come with me. I'll need you."

* * *

><p>"No..." John Watson looked himself at the mirror and shook his head in disapproval. His blue shirt and his dark and thin jumper wasn't exactly what he was looking for.<p>

"Works for me," said his assistant from her place. No matter how many times he walked through his closet, nothing was good enough to wear for his visitor.

"Everything works on you, darling."

Kate smiled and laughed. John loved her laugh, and he really appreciated her. She was always there to experiment, try new games with him.

But The Master's eyes lit up when he realised which were going to be the most suitable clothes.

* * *

><p>"So we are going to see -"<p>

"I trust Mycroft told you the details, let's save some time. Stop here!" The cabbie did as he was told and Sherlock and the DI walked a few meters away from the street, the consulting detective making himself sure no one was looking loosened his scarf a little bit and ran a hand through his dark curls, messing them.

"Punch me."

"Punch you?" Asked Lestrade, confused.

"Yes. Punch me. In the face. Didn't you hear me?"

"l always hear punch me in the face when you're speaking but it's usually subtex -"

"For God's sake." Sherlock punched Lestrade, trying to make him furious. But what he never expected was a very hard punch directly aimed to his left cheekbone. The result was the one he expected, but not the following reaction.

"You're a Detective Inspector!"

"I had bad days!"

On the floor, Sherlock was trying to fight a very annoyed D.I. Greg Lestrade, who seemed to take Sherlock's words "punch me" far serious than he really should have.

* * *

><p>"How do you want your hair?"<p>

"Just like it is now."

Kate helped him with his blond and slightly long hair and then, she caressed his pale cheeks, making him blush a little.

"What are you going to wear?"

John smiled at her through the mirror. He was only wearing a dark dressing gown and nothing else under it. "My battle dress."

She went down, enough to place her face next to his, over his left shoulder. "Oh... lucky boy."

And the doorbell rang. They looked at each other and Kate nodded to his employer. Both were more than ready to receive their visitor.

"Hello?"

"Um yes... sorry. I've been attacked just here and - please, can I come in?"

The red haired woman smiled at the screen. There was the famous Sherlock Holmes, dressed as a Vicar with an injury on his cheekbone. The Master was going to be so pleased.

"Sure."

When he entered, he did it with the company of another man, late forties, gray hair and showing her his police identification.

"D.I. Lestrade. I already called the officers. Do you have any first aid kit?" Kate nodded, gesturing him to follow her but before leaving, she told the taller man to have a seat and wait in the little sitting room.

For a few moments Sherlock looked at every inch of the place trying to figure out where the photographs could be. Obviously this Mister Watson knew he was coming and placing him in that room -

"I'm certainly informed you have been attacked. I don't think Kate caught your name." Holmes could hear that male voice coming nearer the room. He settled again in his place on the sofa and fake tears started to fall from his gray eyes.

"I'm so sorry - I -" And there he was, John Watson, the Master, _naked_ in front of him.


	3. Vatican Cameos

"It's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fight, isn't it? Well, there now we're both defrocked... Mister Sherlock Holmes."

"Mister Watson, I presume."

John Watson was standing naked in front of him. His blond hair was like gold and his blue eyes were piercing his gray ones. His skin was pale not only on his face, but on his body too.

"Look at those cheekbones," said John lowering his gaze, meeting Sherlock's high and sharp cheekbones. "I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?" asked The Master, seductively, removing that white fabric from the Detective's neck, which was decorating it, making him look like a Vicar and with a fast movement he bite it. Mister Watson raised his left and pale hand to slap him, when D.I. Lestrade appeared in the scene. He was holding a bowl with water and a napkin.

"Right, this should -" He looked at John Watson from head to toes and then to the consulting detective, who was still speechless. "I've missed something, haven't I?"

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes and The Master gestured the older man to have a sit. "Please, Mr Lestrade, have a sit. Or if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid."

"I had some in the Palace," said Sherlock and he straightened the collar of his dark shirt.

The blond man sat in the small armchair in front of him and crossed his legs. His right leg over his left one and then he folded his arms over his naked chest. "I know."

"Clearly. You are not stupid. You have been having an affair with a young female person who may become the Queen of this country and you have photographs to prove it."

John Watson smiled at him, his blue and intense eyes on the consulting detective in front of him. He was amazed by his presence. He was everything and even more of what the media and the Internet said. They looked at each other for seconds.

"I had a tea too, at the Palace. If someone's interested," interrupted the D.I. of the Scotland Yard.

Sherlock Holmes looked at John Watson from head to toes. Question marks were placed all around The Master. And being Sherlock Holmes and not being able to read people, made him look at Lestrade, just to check on his deductive skills, to see if they were working. The old man was wearing a new shirt. He had used an electric and not a blade to shave that morning. His shoes were clean, the wife had been busy. And judging by his dark eyes, he had gone to that strippers club again. With Anderson.

But then again, he couldn't see anything on John Watson.

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" asked John Watson leaning closer to Sherlock. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"

The Master smiled. "No, I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself."

Lestrade laughed, bringing both men back to reality. John looked at him, so did Sherlock. "Can you put something on, please? Er, anything at all. A napkin?"

"Why? Are you feeling exposed?" Asked John, playfully.

"I don't think Lestrade knows where to look -"

"No, I think he knows exactly where," The Master stood up from his place, and glanced at the D.I. "But I'm not sure about you."

Holmes, whose services have been required by the most important family in Britain handed him his long coat, which John accepted. "If I was about to look at naked men, I'd go to those stripper clubs Lestrade goes."

"You asked me to go with you last week -"

"It was for a case."

The Master put on Sherlock's long coat and sat on the sofa, next to Lestrade. "Never mind, we've got better things to talk about. Now, tell me, I need to know... how was it done?"

"What?" Asked Sherlock, confused.

"The Game. Moriarty's game."

"That's not why I'm here."

John smiled and licked his lips. "No, you're here for the photographs, but that's never going to happen and as we're chatting -"

"That's a private case! How do you know about it?"

"I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he likes."

Lestrade nodded and seated next to him, but several inches away. "And you like... policemen?"

"I like Detective stories... and Detectives. Brainy is the new sexy," admitted The Master. He added a smirk to his white face and winked at Holmes.

"They didn't - the hostages couldn't say anything about him or otherwise they would be blown up. That's all you need to know."

"OK, tell me, how did he do it?"

Sherlock curled his lips. "He didn't do it."

"You don't think he did it?"

"I don't think he did it, but I know the photographs I'm looking for are in this room."

John frowned and looked at him with his blue eyes. "OK, but how?"

"So they are in this room. Thank you. Lestrade, the door, let no-one in." DI Lestrade nodded and did as he was told, leaving both men alone.

"Several hostages, placed in different and unrelated places in the city with enough explosives to blow up an entire floor of a building. No one knows him. The only thing they were able to hear was his voice. The key was keeping him away from the calls. But the old lady died."

"I thought you were looking for the photographs -"

"No, looking for them would take me ages, so let's talk a bit. The old woman died, but the other hostages didn't."

"I don't understand," admitted John.

"Try to."

"Why?"

"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and think. It's the new sexy."

John looked at the floor. He felt the coldness underneath his feet while they were on the floor. "Because they couldn't see him -"

"So what? His voice was calm and peaceful but he was going to kill them. Voices and sounds are important. They can tell you everything. For instance..."

A beeping sound woke them up from the deductions about The Game. A smoke alarm. And John Watson's eyes fell over the furniture behind the detective's body.

Sherlock Holmes turned around and thanked him. "Hearing a smoke alarm, a father would look towards his child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities." With a movement of his hands on the black furniture, the mirror hanging on the wall moved, revealing a safe-deposit box. "I really hope you don't have a baby in here. All right, Lestarde, you can turn it off now."

The alarm was still ringing. And there wasn't any signal of the D.I. until three men out of the blue appeared, aiming their guns at his grayish head.

"Mmm. You should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit is always in the first key used, that's something, but after that, the sequence is impossible to read. I see it's a five digit code. It can be your birthday. No disrespect, but you clearly were born in the mid seventies and seven is barely used as the first number, so -"

"I'd tell you the code by now, but you know what? I already have."

Sherlock Holmes frowned.

"Think," John Watson smiled, showing for the first time his teeth and blushed.

"Hands behind your head. On the floor. Now!"

Three American men entered the room. One of them was pointing a gun at Lestrade' head, the other took care of Mister Watson and the last one, which seemed to be the leader, was pointing his gun to the dark haired man.

"Open the safe, Mr Holmes."

"I don't know the code -"

"We've heard him. He told you. Now, open the safe!"

"If you did listen, you would know he hadn't told me the combination!"

"Oh for God's sake, ask him! He knows the code!" Yelled Lestrade at the man holding a gun at his head and looking at The Master.

"At the count of three, you shoot D.I. Lestrade."

"I don't know the code -"

"One... two... three -"

"Stop!"

The man nodded at the other one who was still pointing his gun to the old D.I.

Sherlock glanced at John Watson, whose eyes were down on the floor.

The taller man moved his finger through the buttons.

90-18-3.

Click.

The safe was open. And with a quick glance at Watson, Holmes understood everything.

"Vatican cameos!"

His long fingers moved the door revealing a gun inside prepared to shoot. It was directed to the second man over Lestrade, and taking advantage of the shock of the two other ones, the Detective attacked the blond one with his gun and Watson hit the one over him with his elbow, removing the gun of his hands.

"Do you mind?" asked Sherlock to John and he shook his head.

"Not at all," John slapped one of the Americans with the gun leaving him unconscious.

And the camera phone was now in Sherlock Holmes' hands.


	4. Till next time, Mr Holmes

"He's dead." D.I. Lestrade checked on the man who had been pointing him with a gun.

"Thank you. You were very observant," John Watson smiled at the consulting detective.

"Observant?" asked Lestrade confused.

"I'm flattered." John smiled again, and his blue eyes were shinning. Proudly.

"Don't be." Sherlock Holmes' tone was serious. Then their eyes met and for a second time both men shared a look.

"Flattered?" Lestrade, the oldest, was as confused as anyone could have been after being threatened with a gun and almost got shot in the head.

"There'll more of them, they'll be keeping an eye on the building."

And as soon as both men left the room, John Watson ran to the safe. It was empty.

"I'll call Sally -" The curly haired man shot five times to the sky and soon enough they heard people crying in despair and surprise. "Sherlock -"

"On their way. And shut up, it's quick."

Both, D.I. and consulting detective made their way back to the house, not before Sherlock was already giving him more orders. "Check the rest of the house, see how they got in." The Master turned around, to find Sherlock Holmes back, playfully playing with his camera phone as if it were a trophy. "Well, that's the knighthood in the bag."

"She offered you that knighthood many times in the past. Now, that's mine." He extended his pale hand, with his palm open to maybe get what it was his. The other man took a closer look at the device. It was locked. Password protected.

**I AM - - - - LOCKED.**

"All the photographs are here, I presume."

"I have copies, of course."

"Don't try to fool me. You don't have any copies. You've had permanently disabled any kind of up-link or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them."

John Watson wasn't going to give up. "Who said I'm selling?" The Master smiled again. A confident smile, Holmes noted.

"Well, why would they be interested? Whatever you keep on, it's clearly not just photographs -"

"That camera phone is my life, Mister Sherlock Holmes. I'd die before I let you take it. It's my protection." John's voice was firm. It was the first time since they met that Sherlock heard him speaking with such tone and also he could hear the despair in the very deep of Watson's voice. Lestrade called his name, but apart from that, their breathing was the only thing that could be heard in the room. Mister Watson extended his hand again.

"It was."

When both men had reached the room upstairs, Kate was already sedated over the floor and Lestrade was checking on her vital signs. "Must have come in this way." D.I. gestured them the window in the bathroom and Sherlock muttered "clearly". John went down to check on his assistant, but the old police man assured him Kate was just out cold. She was going to be fine.

"Oh, God knows she's used to that."

Truth to be told, Kate wasn't his assistant because she was pretty. She was intelligent and playful just like him.

"There's a back door. Better check it, DI Lestrade." The older man looked at Holmes who nodded at him.

"Sure," and then he ran downstairs, leaving both men alone.

"You're very calm."

The Master took a needle he had hidden inside one of his drawers and looked at himself on the mirror. The deep baritone tone of Sherlock Holmes' voice was something he found quite arousing, but he wasn't only checking on his own appearance.

"Well, your crotch trap did just kill a man," said Sherlock as he continued checking on the bathroom window.

"He would have killed me. It was self defense in advance." John Watson walked until they were just inches apart from each other and caressed his left arm and then, when Holmes turned to see him, Watson stuck the needle into his right arm, strongly enough to let the drug into the Detective's body.

"What is that? What -"

The Master slapped Sherlock very hard across the face, sending him to the floor and everything was fuzzy. "Give it to me." Nothing was clear, but Holmes was able to see those blue eyes over him and The Master's pale hand open waiting for the camera phone.

"Give it to me. Now."

"No." Sherlock Holmes tried to stand up, but his legs didn't respond.

"Give it to me, now!"

"N... no." Sherlock fell again. And John Watson, desperate for the D.I. coming at any moment now and Holmes wasn't collaborating, he took his black riding crop with his left hand.

"Oh, for Goodness sake. Drop it!" He threatened him with it, but the consulting detective refused again. "I... said... drop it!" And between every word, John Watson hit him with the object, hard, against his powerless body. Soon, the drug was taking more advantage and Sherlock's hands left the device free on the floor.

"Ah. Thank you, dear. Now, tell that sweet little posh thing that the pictures are safe with me. They are not for blackmail, just for insurance. Besides, I might want to see her again." Sherlock tried to stand up, but without any succeed. "Oh, no no no no no. It's been a pleasure. Don't spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me... The Man who beat you." He stroked his face with the riding crop, softly. "Good Night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

John Watson ran to the bathroom when D.I. Lestrade found Sherlock almost unconscious over the floor.

"Jesus what are you doing?" Asked Lestrade when he looked at Sherlock, unconscious.

"He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke with his own vomit. I'm a Doctor and believe me, it makes a very unattractive corpse."

"What's this?" Asked Lestrade, holding up the needle he found next to the consulting detective and looked at it carefully, trying to figure it out what it was.

"He'll be fine. I have used it with loads of my friends. You know, I was wrong about him. He did know where to look." The Master smiled playfully to the policeman and sat on the edge of the window.

"What are you talking about?" The blond man glanced at Sherlock, who was still fighting to keep his eyes open.

"The key-code to my safe."

"What was it?"

"My measurements." The Man, who had that camera phone with those compromising photographs raised an eyebrow and escaped.

Sherlock was losing his consciousness. When all of the sudden, he was standing next to a bed, and there was an old woman. Blind. With all her chest covered with enough Semtex to blow up an entirely floor of a building. Sherlock tried to speak, but John Watson silenced him placing one of his short and pale fingers over his lips. "Hush. I'll do the talking."

The blond man moved in the scene until he was kneeling next to the blind woman. "She couldn't see him. None of the hostages could see him. They only heard, knew, his voice. And then, no one said a word about him." The Master moved from his place and smiled at him continuing with his deduction. "He killed her, from all the different hostages, because she started to describe him." The room vanished and then he felt his body falling on his mattress.

"Hush, now. I'm only returning your coat." Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to admit it, but he felt a pair of thin and soft lips over his and then he woke up. The consulting detective was lying in his own bed. He looked around, but he was alone. John Watson wasn't there.

"Where is - Lestrade!"

"Sherlock, go back to bed." The taller man was on the floor after falling from the bed. His legs were shaking and he couldn't stand up.

"What happened -"

"I don't suppose you remember much. You weren't making a lot of sense. I have you recorded in my phone, I'm warning you -"

"Where is he?" Sherlock couldn't think straight. Everything was fuzzy again.

"Who?"

"The man. That man."

"What man?"

"John Watson!"

"He got away, no one saw him. He wasn't here, Sherlock. Now," He grabbed the dark haired man and put him back in his bed. "Go to sleep, you will feel better tomorrow morning."

"I'm fine."

"Yes, you're great. Now, I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?"

"Not reason at all." D.I. Lestrade closed the door behind his back and left him alone, revealing a dark and long coat hanging in it.

**AHHH**

A male groan beeped from inside of one of the coat's pocket. With all his strength, Sherlock stood up and took the phone from the pocket and read it.

**Till next time, Mr Holmes. ****JW**


	5. Texts

"The photographs are perfectly safe." The consulting detective was reading the papers the following morning after the incident with Mister Watson. Despite DI Lestrade, who was still living there tried to get a few words out of him, the young man didn't say a word about The Man.

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker?" Mycroft Holmes, concerned as he said he was, was visiting his young brother and making himself sure the D.I. he had convinced to stay with Sherlock was still there.

"He's not interested in blackmail. He wants... protection, for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at his house?"

"How can we do anything while he has the photographs? Our hands are tied."

"He'd applaud your choice of words. See how this works? The camera phone is his get out of jail free card. You have to leave him alone. Treat him like royalty, Mycroft."

"Though not the way he treats royalty." Suggested the D.I. when Sherlock's mobile beeped.

**AHHH. **

"What was that?"

"Text."

"But what was that noise?"

"Did you know there were other people after him too, Mycroft, before you sent Lestrade and I in there? CIA trained killers, I think."

"Thanks for that, Mycroft. I may be the D.I. of the Scotland Yard, but they were CIA killers."

**Good morning, Mr. Holmes. JW**

"It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes!" Almost yelled Mrs Hudson to the older brother of his young tenant. She was very protective over him, like a son.

"Oh shut up, Mrs Hudson!"

"MYCROFT!" Both men enjoying their landlady's breakfast yelled at him.

"Apologies."

"Thanks"

"Though do in fact shut up."

**AHHH**

**Feeling better? JW **

"There's nothing you can do and nothing he will do, as far as I can see." Sherlock was trying to make his brother forget everything about The Master. Something about him the previous day had made him believe John Watson was more than a sex worker. He was clever. More clever than anybody else. Maybe, he was just as clever as he was.

"I can put maximum surveillance on him."

"Why brother? you can follow him on twitter. I believe his username is _The Whip Hand._"

"Most amusing. Excuse me. Hello?" Mycroft's BlackBerry's sound could fill the silence of the room, until D.I. Lestrade started with his interrogation.

"Why does your phone make that noise?"

"What noise?"

"That noise. The one it just made."

"It' a text alert. It means I got a text."

"Hmm. Your texts don't usually make that noise."

"Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently as a joke, personalized their text alert noise."

"Hmm. So every time they text you... "

**AHHH**

"It would seem so."

"Could you turn that phone down a bit? At my time of life, it's..." Mrs Hudson, still cooking for them was blushing at the text alert.

**I'm fine since you didn't ask. JW**

"See, I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone. It would've been in your coat."

"I'll leave you to your deductions."

"I'm not stupid, you know."

"Where do you get that idea?" Sherlock Holmes put down the papers and glanced at his brother, who was coming inside the room, once he finished his phone call.

"What else does he has? John Watson. The Americans wouldn't be interested in him for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more. Much more. Something big is coming, isn't it?" Both brothers were standing each one in front of the other, just inches away. Lestrade kept eating his bowl with cereals and milk the lovely Mrs Hudson prepared for him, but still he was looking at them.

"John Watson is no longer any concern of yours. From now on, you will stay out of this."

"Oh, will I?"

"Yes, Sherlock. You will. Now if you'll excuse me I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

"Do give her my love." The dark haired man took his violin and started playing the tune of God Save the Queen, under the surprised eyes of his new flatmate and a very angry expression coming from his brother.

* * *

><p>"Lovely Sherlock. That was lovely." The Detective put that his violin and glanced at the door. Molly Hopper arrived wearing a long coat, and he deduced, as always, she was hiding a very suggestive dress under it.<p>

"Oh, dear Lord."

"Hello everyone. It said in the door to come up."

"Everybody saying hello to each other. How wonderful!" Said Sherlock, his voice full of sarcasm.

"So, we're having Christmas drinkies?" The poor blond pathologist ignored his sarcasms and removed her coat, revealing that awful dress Sherlock had deduced before.

"No stopping them, apparently."

"It's one day of the year where Sherlock has to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it."

"Lestrade, the count of your police website says 1895. And you've got a photographs of me wearing that hat!"

"People like it."

"No, they don't. What people?"

D.I. Lestrade prepared a few drinks when Molly, trying to be more sociable, asked him about his wife. "Umm, actually I'm going to see her after midnight. She's coming later after, err... she's visiting her parents -"

"No, she's sleeping with her personal trainer and I've see you have got a new boyfriend, Molly. You're serious about him."

"Sorry, what?"

"You're seeing him tonight, giving him a gift."

"Take a day off -" Lestrade tried to make Sherlock stop.

"Surely you see perfectly wrapped present at the top of the bag. The others are slapdash. It's for someone special. The shade of red echoes her lipstick... an unconscious association, or one she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hopper has love on her mind. That she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift. It suggest long term hopes that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make up and clothes.. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breast -"

_**DEAREST SHERLOCK **_

_**LOVE MOLLY XXX** _

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always."

Sherlock Holmes didn't need to turn around to see his landlady and D.I.'s faces. "I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He gave Molly a kiss in her cheek and as soon as it happened his phone beeped again.

**AHHH**

"Oh no, that wasn't, I didn't -"

"No, it was me."

"Really?"

"My phone."

"Fifty seven."

"What?" "Fifty seven of those texts, the ones I've heard."

**Mantelpiece. JW**

"Thrilling that you've been counting." The taller man walked to the place John Watson texted him about and took a blue little box with a black bow in his hands. Immediately, his mind went back to that moment when he first met The Master. And his deep blue eyes. Those deep and blue eyes he tried to look at and deduce everything about him, and yet he couldn't read nothing.

"Excuse me." Sherlock closed the door of his room and sat in his bed. He removed the black bow easily and found inside the camera phone John Watson told him was his life. And he realised what that called Mycroft.

"Mycroft, I think you're going to find John Watson tonight."

_"We already know where he is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters." _

"No, I mean you're going to find him dead." When he finished the call, D.I. Lestrade was already opening his room's door and asking him if he was OK.

"You're OK?"

"... Yes." Sherlock Holmes held the camera phone tightly against his chest, wanting to say no. John Watson, gave him what for him was his life. The Master was dead.


	6. I'm not dead Let's have dinner

"You didn't need to come, Molly." Both Holmes brothers were standing together, side by side, in front of a cold silver table, a dead body and Molly Hooper.

"It's OK, everyone else is busy with... Christmas. The face is a bit sort of bashed-up, so it might be a bit difficult." The pathologist removed the white sheet which was covering John Watson's dead body. She was right, the face had several bruises but it was still recognizable.

"That's him, isn't he?"

"Show me the rest of him." Molly took the sheet with her tiny hands, and hesitated for a moment, but then she did as she was told. She moved the white fabric until the dead man's feet. It took Sherlock just one or two seconds to recognize the rest of the man lying dead in front of him.

"That's him."

"Thank you, Miss Hopper."

"Who is he? How Sherlock recognized him from - not his face?"

Sherlock smiled to himself, just to himself and he was sure none of the others had seen that glimpse of... a new feeling. He heard Molly's question, of course he had. John Watson was clever. Very clever.

"How did you know he was dead?"

"He had an item in his possession, one he said his life depended on. He chose to give it up."

"Where is this item now?" Then, the younger Holmes turned around to see a family crying. It was hardly a difficult deduction. A dead sibling, relative. Christmas day.

"Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock... Well, you barely knew him."

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." And Sherlock Holmes left Bart's.

Now his mind was processing the next events: his brother calling D.I. Lestrade who casually will say that he had another row with the wife and then he will have to organist his socks index. Again. He couldn't understand why people was still doubting about him. He was clean. But the only one occupying his mind, was John Watson.

* * *

><p>"Composing?"<p>

"Helps me to think."

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock left his fingers fall from the strings of his violin and typed in the D.I.'s computer. His police website was still stuck at 1895 since Christmas day and after days now, he was sure it was a message.

"The count of your police website is still stuck at 1895."

"Yes. Faulty, can't seem to fix it."

"Faulty, or you've been hacked and it's a message." From his blue robe's pocket he took Mister Watson's camera-phone and typed up the number.

**I AM 1895LOCKED **

**WRONG PASSWORD**

**I AM - - - - LOCKED 3 ATTEMPTS REMAINING.**

"Just faulty."

"Right, well. I'm going out for a bit."

Just as it had been in the last days, Sherlock was barely speaking to him and to everyone. Not even a nod, or a gesture. The consulting detective took his violin again, and continued with his sad song, the DI knew was The Man's song.

"D.I. Lestrade."

"Yes?"

"So, any plans for new year tonight?" Just a quick look from head to toes at the mysterious woman in black and high heels and Lestrade erased the wife from his mind. According to Sherlock she was sleeping with her personal trainer. And being under the orders of one of the most important man in the British Government, he knew for sure he was going to be Sherlock's babysitter for a while.

"Um... err, nothing fixed. Nothing I couldn't heartlessly abandon. You have any ideas?"

"One." The woman in black dress and high heels looked at the black car parked on the street and Lestrade sighed tired.

"You know, Mycroft could just have phone me, if he didn't have this stupid bloody power complex."

Soon enough they were at Battersea, in an old factory. Certainly, D.I. Greg Lestrade knew Mycroft Holmes loved to be dramatic, but he didn't need to take him so far to keep their talk away from the younger Holmes.

"He's writing sad music, doesn't eat, barely talks, only to correct the television. I'd say he's heart-broken, but, well, err... he's Sherlock. He does all that anyway."

"Hello, DI Lestrade." He caught his breath. In front of him was John Watson, alive. The same John Watson that he perfectly knew he had been playing with Sherlock's text alert. The same John Watson he knew was the owner of that moan.

"Tell him you're alive."

"He'd come after me."

"You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you."

"DNA test are only as good as the records you keep."

"And I bet you know the record keeper."

"I know what he likes. And I needed to disappear." He smiled. John Watson smiled, showing all his white and perfect teeth.

"Then how come I can see you and I don't even want to?"

"Look, I made a mistake, I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping, now I need it back, so I need your help."

"No."

"It's for his own safety."

"So is this. Tell him you're alive."

"I can't."

"Fine. I'll tell him and I still won't help you."

"What do I say?" His blue eyes, glued to his BlackBerry were contrasting the gray of the place and his dark outfit. He was wearing a pair of blue dark jeans, a black shirt and a black cardigan.

"What do you normally say? You've texted him a lot."

"Just the usual stuff."

"There's no usual in this case."

He glanced again at the screen of his mobile and his gloved fingers were dancing over the keyboard. "_'Good morning, I like your funny hat. I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner'_, _'Hmm, you look sexy on Crimewatch. Let's have dinner'_. He replied _'I'm not hungry'_ and I asked him again _'Let's have dinner. I don't mean dinner. I mean sex.'_ But then again _'I'm not hungry'._"

"You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?"

"At him. He never replies."

"No, Sherlock always replies to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He'll outlive God trying to have the last word."

"Does that make me special?"

D.I. Lestrade was amazed. He couldn't fully understand why this man, the same man who had been sleeping with the future Queen of their country was playing with Sherlock Holmes and what made him feel more angry was the fact John Watson was enjoying it. "I don't know, maybe."

"Are you jealous?"

"We are not a couple. I'm just babysitting him -"

"No, you aren't and I'm texting him right now; _'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner'_."

"Who the hell knows all about Sherlock Holmes? But for the record, I don't even know if he's gay -"

"Well I am and I want him in my bed, begging for mercy. Look at us both."

**AHHH**

Lestrade and John Watson's eyes were wide as saucers when they looked a tall man in a dark coat running his steps away from them.


	7. Let's have dinner

That night, D.I. Lestrade went back to Baker Street. The wife disappeared and the British Government was at its feet. He was Sherlock Holmes' babysitter, but he was also his friend, and as his friend, he wasn't going to let him alone. When he entered the room, he found the consulting detective fixing the strings of his violin. The last tune Lestrade could hear was his song, The Man's song.

"He's alive then. How are we feeling about that?" He offered him a drink, which the young man refused politely and placed his violin under his chin, ready to play when the Big Ben chimed. It was midnight. New Year.

"Happy New Year Lestrade."

"Do you think you'll be seeing him again?"

_Auld Land Syne_ filled the room and he fell into the armchair defeated. It was always the same. It was impossible to get to John Watson. Sherlock wasn't going to say a word, and in the depths of Greg's mind, he knew there was something more.

John Watson was walking through the busiest streets of London. He was watching lots of people cheering each other, drinking, and raising their glasses for the Queen, when he heard his phone beeping. He removed it from his leather jacket and couldn't help but smile.

**HAPPY NEW YEAR. SH**

* * *

><p>A few days later, he decided he wasn't going to stay there and wait for him to appear. He was going to find that code out, and most importantly, he was going to find out what The Master had in that camera phone. What could be so important that two of the most powerful governments in the world were at his heels? The x-ray were the most suitable and only possible way to investigate what could be inside. John Watson gave him enough proof to show him how clever he was. He had made his own way in the world with that camera phone, and having affairs with politicians, novelists, and even the young female person, the next in the line to the throne. The whole Commonwealth could be destroyed if The Master, the one who possessed power not only in bed but outside as well, opened his mouth as well as his phone.<p>

"Is that a phone?"

"It's a camera phone."

"And you are x-raying it."

"Yes I am."

"Whose phone is it?"

"A man's."

"Your boyfriend?"

"You think he's my boyfriend because I'm x-raying his possessions?"

The tone of Molly Hooper was making him feel nervous. The x-ray scans were showing that the camera phone had four to six acid implants inside. Anyone who tried to unlock it using the wrong code would destroy the files inside.

"Well, we all do silly things!"

"Yes..."

And then he realised something. According to his words, John Watson sent his camera phone to him for safekeeping but now he needed back. "They do, don't they? Very silly... He sent this to my address. He loves to play games..."

"He does?"

** I AM 221B LOCKED **

**WRONG PASSWORD **

**I AM - - - - LOCKED.**

**TWO ATTEMPTS REMAINING**

Sherlock sighed. John Watson was a clever man, and solving his little puzzle was going to take more effort than thinking of his own address.

* * *

><p>When he returned from Bart's, Sherlock could smell him. His scent was something he haven't been able to forget since their last meeting. Sherlock knew Mister John Watson had been in his room to return his coat and his phone. He followed the smell, and found him sleeping in his bed. His blond hair was still damp and he was wearing a blue tee shirt and a pair of blue worn pajama trousers. He looked peaceful in his sleep. Eyes closed, pink lips, soft white skin. Sherlock could have never guessed he was a sex worker. But still, even wearing clothes, the detective couldn't tell a single thing about him. Most people were like an open book. He could read them with just a quick look; unfaithful husbands and wives, smoker, public school kids, heart diseases, money problems, affairs, he could read it all. But John Watson was an empty book, a book without words, because they had been erased by the owner. John Watson erased himself.<p>

"So, who's after you?"

"People who want to kill me."

"Who are they?"

"Killers."

They were sitting in their chairs. The blond man was occupying his black leather armchair while D.I. Lestrade was updating his police blog. Without an offer, The Master took his blue gown and tied it around his body. It was long for him, and Sherlock could see how the soft and silky material was adhering to Watson's body, like a second skin.

"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific, you know," D.I. sighed, mimicking the same movements he did when he was questioning a witness, but this time the consulting detective was the one asking, questioning.

"So you faked your own death to get ahead of them?"

"It worked for a while."

"Except you let Lestrade know you're alive, therefore me."

"I knew you'd keep my secret. Where's my camera phone?" His blue eyes lit up a bit when he glanced around the sitting room looking for it. If he wasn't wrong, the camera phone could be anywhere. Mister Holmes was clever, very clever and he was clever too. Anyone could think the item was in a safe box, or buried deep in the park. But if John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes as he thought he knew him, the device was there, close to him...in plain sight.

"It's not here."

"What have you done with it?"

"I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago."

"I need it."

"Well, we can't just go and get it, can we?"

"Molly Hooper, she could collect it and take it to Bart's, one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the cafe, one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back." John Watson smiled at the plan. And Sherlock Holmes saw that.

"Very good Detective Inspector, excellent plan. Full of intelligent precautions."

"Thank you."

"So, what do you keep in here? In general I mean." And as the Master as predicted, the camera phone was in plain sight. The famous Detective in the funny hat had it inside his breast pocket.

"Pictures, information, anything I might find useful."

"For blackmail," suggested Lestrade, but months ago the sex worker assured all of them he didn't need blackmail.

"For protection. I make my way in the world. I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be. Her Royal Highness is one of them."

"So how do you acquire this information?" Sherlock's gray eyes were on his. Anyone, anyone outside on the streets wouldn't give a penny for that man. Not like his physical appearance was bad. But he was just a man, a sex worker. But then he owned most of the Government secrets. He knew what they all liked. Many men and women had met his skin, his body, and Mister John Watson, The Master in sex had all their secrets.

"I told you - I misbehave."

"But you've acquired something more dangerous than protection. Do you know what it is?"

"Yes... But I don't understand it."

"I assumed. Show me." The Master extended his hand.

"The pass code." Sherlock handed him a camera phone and he smiled at him while he typed the code. He deduced all. John Watson was used to his phone and maybe he had him in his trap.

"It's not working."

"No, because it's a duplicate I had made into which you just entered the numbers 1058. I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that, but thanks anyway."

**I AM 1058LOCKED **

**WRONG PASSWORD **

**I AM - - - - LOCKED **

**ONE ATTEMPT REMAINING**

The dark haired man frowned and the sex worker smiled, John almost laughed. "I told you that my camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand." He had been defeated, again. He wasn't lying in his website description. He was a Master and he knew when people were beaten. John Watson knew he had beaten him. His cleverness wasn't a fluke. He wasn't a fake. The Master was clever.

"Oh, you're rather good."

"There was a man, a MOD official and I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know but I photographed it... he was a bit tied up at the time" The blond man handed Sherlock the phone and he frowned at what he was looking at.

"It's a bit small on that screen. Can you read it?"

**007 confirmed allocation. 02A 05B 07C 10D 14E 16F 18G**

"I had one of the country's best cryptographer to take a look at it, through he was mostly upside down, as I recall... couldn't figure it out. What can you do, Mr Holmes? Go on, impress a man like me."

Slow motion.

The dark haired man felt everything going in slow motion; Lestrade's police mug hitting the table, his eyes moving through the numbers and John Watson's lips over his left cheek. And he knew what it was.

"There's a margin for error, but I'm pretty sure there's a swimming race tomorrow at 6.30 at Bristol South Swimming Pool, apparently it's going to save the world, I'm not sure how, but give me a moment, I've only been on the case for eight seconds. Oh come on, it's not a code, these are bet tickets."

Lestrade and Watson stared open mouthed. The Master had to admit it was amazing... more than amazing. It was greater than all the stories he had heard about Sherlock Holmes.

"Please, don't feel obliged to tell me that was amazing."

"I would have you right here, on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."

"I've never begged for mercy in my life."

"Twice."

Blue and gray. They held their gaze. They even held their breath. But John knew he was going to have him. He was going to make him beg, and twice.

He knew it.

* * *

><p>"Coventry."<p>

"I have never been. Is it nice?" He stopped. He looked down and glanced at the strings of his violin. The fire was glowing, and John Watson was lying in the armchair opposite him, only wearing his blue gown.

"Where's Lestrade?"

"He went out, a couple of hours ago."

"I was just talking to him."

"He said you do that. What's Coventry got to do with anything?" He smiled.

"It's a story, probably not true... in the Second World War, the Allies knew Coventry was going to be bombed, because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know that, so they let it happen anyway -"

"Have you ever had anyone?" John interrupted him. His blue eyes were shining even in the darkness of the room. The only light was coming from the fireplace and from his eyes. The Detective felt drunk and intoxicated by those eyes, by his lips.

"I'm sorry?"

"And when I said had, I'm being indelicate."

"I don't understand." Sherlock frowned and Watson left his place in the armchair and crawled until he was on his knees between Holmes' legs and with both hands over his tights.

"I'll be delicate then. Let's have dinner."

"Why?"

"You might be hungry."

"I'm not."

"That's a bit not good."

"Why would I... want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" Sherlock Holmes let his right hand travel to The Master's left one and caressed it softly. His wrists were soft, unmarked. His fingertips told him how many lovers he tied up in a bed, but his wrist told him more things; John Watson had never been tied. He was a Master, a good one. Then Sherlock looked at his eyes. They were bright blue and his pupils were dilated. If John Watson had erased most of his life from his body, Sherlock knew he found two important things about him just touching his wrist and looking into his eyes.

"Mr Holmes, if it was the end of the world, if it was the very last night would you have dinner with me?" He was closer now. Their lips were just inches away from any touch. And he felt weak. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt weak. He was weak under the power of The Master. "Do you want to have me, Mister Holmes?" John Watson bit his lip. He wanted to kiss that man so badly. He wanted to make those lips bleed, but he didn't need to do it, because Sherlock Holmes kissed him first. He felt as though he was in heaven because it wasn't a hungry or desperate kiss. It wasn't a demanding kiss like the ones he had from his clients who looked for pleasure and to show off. Sherlock Holmes wasn't like any of his clients. Not even like the novelist, the DNA keeper or Her Royal Highness. The Consulting Detective in the funny hat was sweet. He cared. And he fell in front of him. Both men were in their knees, over the soft carpet and in front of the fireplace. "Do you want to have me, Mister Holmes?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You have been starving yourself for too long. Let's have dinner. Anything on me," whispered John, while Sherlock's long, cold, soft fingers untied the blue gown. John gasped, and tried to keep himself calm. He was always the one in charge, and he was nothing if not The Master. He pushed the armchair, leaving a large space to explore each other, to love each other.

But when Sherlock met the scar in his left shoulder John stopped moving. Everything stopped. Even their breathing halted. "You're a Doctor... an Army Doctor. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan."

"Body make up... that's why I couldn't read anything on you." John kissed him again and undid the young man's shirt and trousers. He wasn't even surprised when he felt those hard muscles under his fingertips. He was pale, with long and endless white limbs. And he felt the urge to bite that skin, he wanted to leave marks, John wanted to hit him with the riding crop. The Master wanted to mark Sherlock Holmes, because he was his. He wanted that man to be his and no one else's.

Both men, now naked, fought with their mouths. It was something completely new for him and it felt good. Mister Watson was kissing him as though his own life depended on it.

Sherlock had read books; he had looked on the Internet. But those texts and lectures about sex, relationships and love didn't explain the feeling inside his chest. And he wondered if The Master was feeling the same, or if he was just doing his job.

Watson pushed the other man until his back met the floor, and he fell over him and between his legs.

Everything was new.

Sherlock felt that impulse from the man on top of him, and gasped for more air. He continued kissing him and trying to push things further, he opened his legs and positioned them around the The Master's waist, and like a boy who's discovering a new toy, who's discovering how to play with it, John started stroking Sherlock's hardness with his experimented hands. The detective melted under his touch, John was so pleased. He wanted to be the only one who knew what Sherlock Holmes, the great detective in the funny hat, liked. He wanted to be the first and the only one who ever got a chance to explore Sherlock's body. John Watson, The Master, wanted to take Sherlock's virginity with him.

Soon John's fingers started to trace patterns close to Sherlock's entrance and pushed a finger, feeling how the muscles there started to fight him back, but Sherlock had his eyes shut as he pushed down, trying to make his body accept John's intruding fingers. The Master added a second one and then a third, stretching Sherlock's hole for what was eventually going to happen soon. The consulting detective gasped in pleasure. John was scissoring him with those experienced fingers and he liked it. Sherlock liked it so much, the sensation was good, and the waves of pleasure going through his whole body was making him convulse.

He needed John, now.

"I need you," panted Sherlock as he looked at John Watson's blue eyes.

The Man nodded and kissed him one last time while positioning himself between his long legs. Being so inexperienced, but clever, Sherlock locked his legs around John's waist and closed his eyes as he felt him filling him completely with one long thrust. Sherlock's fingernails soon found a spot on John's back and The Master found his own place on Sherlock's neck.

Firstly, John didn't move, making himself sure Sherlock's body was getting used to his length and as soon as Sherlock started rocking his own hips, he started moving back and forth, doing long and deep thrust, and each of them were driving Sherlock mad, touching his prostate and showing him a world full of pleasure. Full of all the pleasure he always missed.

Both kissed each other longly. Their kisses were sweet and deep, not quick and desperate. It felt right.

John knew he was close, but he also wanted Sherlock to be as close as he was. John started stroking Sherlock's hardness which was between their bellies and with long and soft strokes, and his thumb on the head, he could make Sherlock feel close to the edge.

"Sherlock - you're so tight,"

"John, I - I'm close,"

The Master smiled inwardly and kissed him again, bitting the detective's lower lip. "Come Sherlock, come."

Soon John started to move faster, and his thrust became quick and deeper. He raised Sherlock's legs, allowing himself to get a better angle. The stroked he was performing on Sherlock's cock also became quicker and soon, both men were panting each other's names.

Both came together, John inside Sherlock and the detective over their stomachs.

They didn't have sex, they didn't fuck. They made love.

John Watson's eyes and wrists told him that before.


	8. I AM SHERLOCKED

The young man found himself alone in his sitting room, dressing himself and glancing at the blond hair left on his jacket sleeve with curiosity. His pale skin was burning, product of the previous activities and being more specific, thanks to The Master's touches. When he was given this case, Sherlock Holmes had clearly defined in his own clever mind that sex was something that could never alarm him. Sex was just something people did to fill their needs, needs he never had. Primitive, absurd and enslaved. The human race was the slave of that activity and the Sherlock was sure he wasn't going to be added to that kind of people.

Not even when he found himself inside John Watson, and when the only thing in is mind was giving him the pleasure he wanted, both wanted, even when it was his first time. John Watson, the Master and Dominator in several people's minds and beds, was his first.

His thoughts were interrupted when a man, well dressed and wearing dark sunglasses appeared with an envelope in his hands.

"Are you here to take me away?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes."

"Well, I decline," Sherlock fell on his own armchair and glanced at his kitchen. A shade of blue moved in the darkness of the flat, only noticed by him.

"I don't think you do," the security man with a neat haircut and manicured hands handed him the envelope and Sherlock took it with a sigh. It was a swimming pool competition ticket with his name printed on it.

And once outside Baker Street, a black car was already waiting for him. Clearly expensive and with another man who looked like a copy of the first one who dragged him out. Sherlock was a hundred percent sure he was meeting Mycroft and not anyone else, just like Lestrade did before. Despite any attempt to talk and do the men speak, they remained silent during all the way.

"Something is going to happen in that pool, something that might blow it up or save the world. The British and the Americans know about it but rather than expose their source they're going to let it happen - the pool will blow up. Coventry all over again."

The car stopped outside a sports club after a good time and once Sherlock put a foot inside the building he knew something wrong was going on. It was a dark and cold night and the men in dark suits gestured him to get inside, just to find a swimming pool of approximately one hundred meters.

Everything was obscure and the only light in such dark and deserted place was the one caused by the water and the little lamps inside the pool. There was also a dead body floating in the middle of the pool. A boy about ten to twelve years, floating face down in the water. Dead.

The silence of the place and the mystery itself ended when he heard a voice he quite knew from the other end of the room. "The Coventry Conundrum. What do you think of my analogy? He will swim, and he might win, but he's dead."

"The boy is paralyzed, mission accomplished by the killer, hundreds of witnesses but then, he dies. And no one cares for his eczema problem and the poison in his medicine. Therefore, for his missing shoes."

"Neat, don't you think? Or were you too bored now to notice the pattern?" Mycroft Holmes was enjoying himself. He was enjoying the situation and the position of making his own little brother understand what he had done wrong. Just like when they were just kids, the only thing he wanted was protect Sherlock. And protecting him, sometimes involved making him dance and making him do his own mistakes.

"I was a kid. No one listened to me and now -"

"We ran a similar project then, with the Germans a while back, though I believe one the hostages of your last case didn't make it. But that's the deceased for you... late, in every sense of the word."

"And how this kid is going to swim?"

"Never will he swim. The entire project is canceled. The terrorists cells have been informed we know about the bomb he had threatened you months ago in this same place. We can't fool them now. We've lost everything. One fragment of one email and months and years of planning... finished."

"Your MOD man." The older brother smiled and glanced at the watch he had inside his tailored jacket. He knew they had seconds before someone else joined them. And no matter how much he wanted to stop his words, the words he knew he had to say and make his brother understand would be heard.

"That's all it takes. One lonely, naive man, desperate to show off and a man clever enough to make him feel special."

"You should screen your defense people more carefully." Mycroft raised his eyebrows surprised how the other Holmes ignored the tone of the conversation. How Sherlock could ignore the facts when they were in front of his own eyes. Everything, since the meeting in Buckingham Palace till now, all the clues and had been coming from Mycroft's own hand and all of them were in front of the consulting detective's eyes. And yet, Sherlock Holmes was blind. And in the deep of his brother's mind, he knew exactly the cause of that blindness.

"I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock, I'm talking about you!" The young brother frowned, meeting the corners of the truth. "The damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because that was textbook. The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle and watch him dance. Just like he said -"

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock Holmes refused to accept he had been fooled. He refused to accept he had been dancing and moving like a puppet does when its tied to his master's strings. There wasn't such a thing like dance. He wasn't dancing, no.

"Absurd? How quickly you decipher the email for him? Was it the full minute? Or were you really eager to impress?"

"I think it was less than five seconds." The dark haired man turned around to see John Watson, dressed with a expensive and tailored blue suit and his hair neatly combed. He looked at him from head to toes, but nothing. Sherlock couldn't read anything that could tell him what was about to happen. And the neutral and little worried expression on the Master's face was driving him crazy. More than he could ever admit.

"I drove you into his path. I'm sorry. I didn't know," said Mycroft, addressing his words to his brother. And the detective frowned even more, because Mycroft never apologized.

Three men in a dark pool and each of them were looking for something they desperately wanted and yet, no one could guarantee the results of that night.

"Mister Holmes, I think we need to talk." Finally John Watson spoke again and the young man turned to see him.

"So do I, there are a number of aspects I'm still not clear on -"

"Not you, Junior. You're done now." The Master, the man who brought a Nation to its knees and gave Sherlock Holmes the only thing no one could, ignored him and walked till he were just inches away from the other Holmes who he was sure, haven't had a decent sleep since he got in touch to inform him about the existence of the photographs. The heels of his shoes were hitting the cold floor, causing the only sound in that deep silence.

"There is more, loads more," He looked for his camera phone inside his blue jacket and took it with his left hand and raised it on the air, showing it like if it were a prize. "On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."

The older Holmes lowered his gaze until his green eyes met the floor.

John Watson had him in his hands.

* * *

><p>"We have people who can get into this."<p>

"I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months. Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my phone."

They were in Mycroft's manor now. The blond Holmes was in front of the Master, who was sitting with his legs crossed. Away from them was Sherlock, who remained silent in a little armchair, with his back to them and looking at his own reflection in the thick windows. The place was cozy and warm and the three men were sure everything was going to finish that night. All of them but Sherlock.

"Four to six additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small explosive. Any attempt to open it will burn the hard drive."

"Explosive. It's more me. I do explode Mister Holmes but I do not burn," John Watson winked at the man in front of him, causing a frown in the middle of Mycroft Holmes' eyes. The Master could read people too, something that he had learned with his job and he knew he wasn't wrong about the older Holmes. He was deeply worried and having not only citizen's lives but the reputation of the most powerful family in Britain was causing havocs on him.

"Some data is always recoverable."

"Take that risk."

"You have a pass code to open this. I deeply regret to say, we have people who can extract it from you." The young Holmes sighed to himself and closed his eyes, while Watson called his name.

"Sherlock?"

"There will be two pass codes. One to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress, you can't know which one she's given and there would be no second attempt."

The sexual worker smiled, showing his perfect, white teeth, like a proud mother would do when his child proved his intelligence. "He's good, isn't he? I should have him on a leash. In fact, I might... later."

"We destroy this, then. No one has the information."

"Fine, good idea. Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you burn."

"Are there?"

"Telling you would be playing fair. I'm not playing any more," the sexual worker took a white envelope from the inside of his jacket and handed it to Mycroft with a little wink. "A list of my requests, and some ideas about my protection once they're granted. I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation, but then I'd be lying. I imagine you'd like to sleep it on."

"Yes, thank you."

"Too bad. Off you pop and talk to people."

He moved from his place in the chair and sat with one leg over the table, just inches away from the man who occupied a minor position in the British Government.

"You've been very... thorough. I wish out lot were as half as good as you."

"I can't take all the credit, I had a bit of help. Jim Moriarty sends his love."

"Yes, he's been in touch. Seems desperate for my attention, which I'm sure can be arranged."

"I had all this stuff and never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the Consultant Criminal. Gave a lot of advice about how to play with the Holmes boys. Do you know what he calls you? The Ice man," John looked away to Sherlock, who he was sure, was looking at him through the reflection in the windows "And the Virgin. But I already took good care of that, haven't i, Sherlock dear?" Mycroft looked at him and how he was enjoying the situation of having both brothers in their knees for him. "Didn't even ask for anything, he just likes to cause trouble, that's my kind of man."

"And here you are, the Master that bought a Nation to its knees. Nicely played." They were about to shake their hands when that deep voice coming from the end of the room changed the temperature of the room. Sherlock wasn't going to surrender. He wasn't going to be on his knees.

"No."

"Sorry?"

"I said no. Very, very close, but no," said Sherlock as he stood up from his place and walked till he was face to face with the Master who took his virginity just moments ago. "You got carried away. The game was too elaborate, you were enjoying yourself too much."

"There's no such thing as too much."

"Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. Craving the distraction of the game, I sympathize, but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the loosing side."

"Sentiment, what are you talking about?" Said John Watson, half laughing with joy. He was getting worried because this wasn't on his plans. Sentiment wasn't a word in his speech.

"You,"

"Oh, Dear God, look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you. Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?" The only one who could see the tears in his blue eyes was Sherlock Holmes. Two men fighting the urge of kiss each other and lock themselves away from the world to live a fantasy they knew, was impossible. Someone was going to loose and someone was going to win.

Sherlock knew he was going to win.

Or that's what he thought.

"No. Because I took your pulse," He touched his left wrist and then lowered his head until he was just inches away from The Master and continued talking for him and just him."Elevated. Your pupils dilated. I imagine everyone thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive. When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self portrait, how true of you." Then, he took the camera phone from his brother's hands and started typing the code he knew was going to unlock it. "The combination of your safe, your measurements, but this, this is far more intimate, this is your heart and you should never let your heart rule your head. You could have chosen any number and walked out with everything. But you just couldn't resist, could you? I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof."

Sherlock was about to press the enter button in the camera phone when John Watson took his hand, the same hand he used to touch his body and let tears fall from his blue eyes. "Everything I said, it's not real. I was just playing the game, don't do it -"

"I know. And this is just losing."

** I AM SHERLOCKED **

**AUTO-DESTRUCTION MODE ACTIVATED**

But the camera phone, far away from unlock itself with the pass code Sherlock tipped in, made an strange sound like an alarm and The Master took it from Sherlock's hand and threw it to the fireplace. It made a click sound and then, it exploded. Both brothers looked surprised and John looked away.

"You were wrong, so wrong. What you don't remember, or at least you ignore, is the fact I'm a Doctor. There are medicines to cause dilated pupils and rise my blood pressure. You should have seen that when you touched me. I don't usually take pills when I'm doing my job, but with you I had to. And you're right, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the loosing side, Mister Holmes."

Just inches away from their mouths, and John was in tiptoes kissing him softly. Mycroft looked at them astonished, not able to say a word. The atmosphere of the place was different. It wasn't a fight anymore. And drive Sherlock to Mister John Watson, sex worker's path was his biggest mistake. The Master broke the kiss and looked at him, with a furious blush on his cheeks.

"Am I expected to beg?"

"Yes, twice, as I said I would have you in that desk," replied the blond man and Sherlock looked directly to his blue eyes. "But you were right about one thing, though. I won't even last six months now."

"Please, John, I'm -"

"Sorry about the _dinners_ I promised you, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

Finally, the Master who brought not only an entire Nation to its knees but the most clever man in the world, lost his own game. But not only him, Sherlock Holmes, the great Detective lost too. The dark haired man knew he had just signed John Watson's death sentence thinking he had feelings for him. There wasn't any camera phone and 'The Man' wasn't going to last too much in this world.

"If you're feeling kind, lock me up or let me go. I doubt I'll survive long." Mycroft looked at him and then to his brother, who was crying in the depths of his own despair, with his back to them and with his eyes on the fireplace and what had left of the camera phone he knew was John Watson's life.


	9. Good Bye, Mister Holmes

"You don't smoke,"

"And you don't usually frequent coffee shops, Detective Inspector."

After the John Watson incident, or game how Lestrade liked to remember it, everything changed. His wife's lover died in a strange car accident and she even called him, assuring him she wanted to be back with him. This time, Sherlock kicked out of Baker Street when he deduced his new start with his wife. And he even told him the way his wife's lover was murdered under Mycroft's instructions. Greg knew Mycroft had been behind all that. Somehow he was glad to be back with his wife, he really loved her. But in the other side, he felt bad for his friend Sherlock. His brother was always behind those who cared for him. Even with Mrs Hudson, but she had always been like that with the young Holmes.

And one morning, he called him. "Is that the file of John Watson?"

Mycroft Holmes nodded and took a sip of his Earl Grey. They were sharing a little table inside the coffee shop downstairs 221B. "Closed for ever. I have a few things to tell my brother about that man. Somehow he managed to get himself enrolled into a witness scheme and he currently lives in America. New name, new identity. I don't know about his profession, though. He will survive unless they never see each other again."

The D.I. just looked at him while he was talking. The Holmes brothers had an amazing ability to talk about special, unique and important things like if they were the most stupid on the world. "He despised him at the end. He didn't even say his name. He was just calling him _The Man,_"

"He despised him or he missed him, Detective Inspector?"

"He doesn't have those feelings, Mister Holmes."

The man who owned all the power of the country on his hands smiled. "My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"

"I don't know," admitted the police man.

"Neither do I. But initially, he wanted to be a pirate."

"He will be OK with this witness protection, and the fact they can't see each other," Greg knew how hurtful his words were. Sherlock was his friend, he considered him his friend and as friends, he wanted the best for him. He also knew Sherlock had feelings for that man, John Watson. But the Master managed to mess things up with the detective. He messed with Sherlock's mind and heart and that was something he didn't like. He felt sorry for Sherlock, but maybe staying away from each other was for the best.

"I agree. That's why I decided I'm going to tell him that."

"Instead of what?"

"He's dead. He was sent to Afghanistan and got himself caught by a group of terrorists two months ago. They recorded a video showing that they had him, but the Government didn't respond, of course. He was beheaded."

Lestrade closed his eyes. He had seen those videos. The terrorists usually tortured men and women and then they send those videos to the governments in order to get what they wanted. And after what John Watson had caused to the most important and powerful family in Britain, he was sure Mycroft didn't lie when he said they didn't care about him. "Is this definitely? He has done this before."

"He used my brother before to fool me. And now he wasn't at hand to help him. He was clever, but not like enough to escape from the Afghans don't you think, Detective Inspector?"

Greg nodded and watched how Mycroft moved the folder with John Watson's file and the famous camera phone. "So... shall you tell him?"

Lestrade looked at Mycroft's eyes and took the folder with him.

* * *

><p>"Good news for you, Lestrade. Got you a murderer. It was the gardener."<p>

"Hi, Sherlock. I'm here for... uh - It's, it's about John Watson."

The detective moved his eyes from the microscope which he was currently working with and looked at the D.I. standing in front of him. His familiar dark coat was slightly damp from the rain outside and he was carrying a folder and the camera phone. His facial expression was the same from when he had something important to tell him. "Oh. Something happened? Did he came back?"

Lestrade looked around, trying to find the proper words to say what he had to say, remembering Mycroft's words. "No, he's just...- I popped in with Mycroft downstairs and he gave me this."

"He's back in London?" The young Holmes was now facing him. And Lestrade had to think fast.

"No, he's... he's in America!"

"America?"

"Mmm, got himself into a witness protection scheme... well, you won't see him again."

"I never said I was going to see him again. Did you two have fun downstairs? I can smell the Earl Grey and the chocolate biscuits."

Greg smiled just for himself and relaxed a bit. He felt like someone had pulled two tons off his shoulders. He was already preparing himself for a long questioning from his friend. But far away from it, Sherlock just returned to his place on the kitchen table and continued working with his microscope.

"Yes and now I have to take this back to Mycroft -"

"I want the remains of the camera phone."

"There's nothing on it, this has been -"

"I know, I still want it."

"I have to give this back to your brother, Sherlock. You can't keep it." The young man's hand was still on the air. He wasn't going to give up. "Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft, it's the government's property now..."

"Please." Greg Lestrade had to fought between what his mind was thinking about John Watson and what he felt in his heart for his friend Sherlock Holmes. The Man, how he liked to call him had ruined certain part of the young detective. And Greg hated him for doing that to his friend. But Sherlock was begging him. And he couldn't say no.

"Thank you."

"I should better be going. I left Sally in charge and..." Sherlock took the camera phone and placed it inside his pocket and continued working, ignoring Lestrade's comments. And somehow, he felt relieved. Because it seemed like everything was going back to normal. "Never mind... listen, did he ever text you again?"

"Once."

"And what did he say?"

"_'Good bye Mister Holmes'_."

"Right... um, see you later."

As soon as Sherlock heard Lestrade getting into his own car and driving away from Baker Street, he locked all the doors which had any access to his flat and made his way to his own room. He saw the four handcuffs on the four bedposts and smiled.

And slowly and with ease, Sherlock started undoing some buttons of his purple shirt. He took his own riding crop and sat on his big bed, waiting for him to come from his room upstairs.

"America? Really?" asked john Watson as he appeared on his room, only wearing Sherlock's blue night gown.

"Let's have dinner," Sherlock kissed John and The Master closed the door behind is back.

** The End.**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Note<span>: Thank you so much for all the reviews, the favs and the alerts!**


	10. Pink!

"Hello, Detective Inspector."

Greg looked at Sherlock and then at the man who was wearing what looked like an awful, ridiculous, soft jumper. Months ago he was told John Watson had been caught by terrorists and beheaded. Greg imagined a headless body lying on the dusty streets of an unknown place in the middle-east.

But Greg never expected to see John Watson, 'The Man', as Sherlock had always referred as, there in Baker Street drinking tea and watching a crap tv show.

And apparently he had been living there for months without no one knowing.

Not even Mycroft Holmes who knew everything about everyone.

"What is he doing here?"

"Not your business -"

"I'm his flatmate." John said calmly.

Greg wanted to laugh. "His flatmate? We almost got ourselves killed because of you -"

"Where is the body?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

John saw Sherlock enjoying the moment.

Cheeky bastard.

Lestrade nodded. "You know how they never left notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did." Really? "Will you come?"

Sherlock knew this was challenging. Of course it was. Three bodies and a fourth left a note.

Interesting.

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock pulled a face and John smiled. He had heard stories about that 'Anderson' bloke. According to Sherlock the man was insufferable and John was really interested to see how 'insufferable' he really was.

"Anderson won't work with me."

Greg bit his lip, exasperated. "Well, he won't be your assistant -"

"I _need_ an assistant."

John continued sipping more of his tea and fixed his eyes on the telly screen.

Greg noted there was something in the air... domesticity.

Where they boyfriends now? Sherlock and John? Were they a couple?

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

Greg accepted the deal. "Thank you."

Lestrade shot John one last look and a nod. John nodded back and both he and Mrs Hudson watched him leaving.

As soon as the police man was out of earshot, Sherlock turned to his landlady and to John and leaped and clenched his fists as if he was a little boy allowed to open his Christmas presents before breakfast.

"Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

John and Mrs Hudson shared a look and smiled.

Sherlock put his coat on and started looking for his scarf when Mrs Hudson went downstairs leaving the two men alone.

"Here." John asked, finding the blue scarf that was tied to one of the table legs after a good 'experiment' he and the detective did the previous night. "Should I wait up tonight?

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's thin lips. "You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor."

Long time ago, yes. "Yes." And later a sexual... Master.

"Any good?"

Very. "Yes. Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

And lots of anatomy, thank you very much. "Yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

Oh, lots. Especially when he ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants, separately. The woman was all fun, but the novelist... he had been so boring. "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

The detective grinned just a bit. "Wanna see some more?"

"Oh _God_, yes." But... "I can't, Sherlock."

"You can't remain locked up here."

"Mycroft will know. And they'll kill me."

Sherlock winced because that was awfully true. John was to be killed if found safe and sound. Everyone thought he was death and he had successfully kept Mycroft out of this for the past months.

Living with John was good. Far too good. Too good to be truth.

John was nice, sweet, tender, clever - that was important - to be clever. You have to be clever to be with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson fulfilled that requirement perfectly. And John Watson made the best tea Sherlock had ever tasted.

And John was a good shag.

But apart from all of that, the tea, the sex, the cleverness, everything, John was a very good friend and companion.

What they were? Friends? Lovers? Fuck buddies? Flatmates? Detective and rent boy?

'I'm his flatmate' John said when Lestrade asked. 'I love you', John said after they made love one night. 'I should pay half the rent' John said after they ate dinner last night.

They were...

Who cared what they were if they were together?

"They got the photographs," Sherlock said, taking John's black coat that had been unused since he had started living with him. "They have nothing against you."

John nodded. "But _she_ wants me dead. I'm the man who boasted about sleeping with his granddaughter and having photographs to prove it."

Sherlock lowered his face an kissed John's lips. "You'll be safe. I won't let anyone, not even my fat brother, take you away from me. I promise."

"Selfish bastard."

The detective chuckled.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out."

"Both of you?" The landlady asked, watching the two men heading to the front door.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!" Sherlock kissed her cheek and smiled.

That was something. Mrs Hudson had seen his tenant changing since that strange man, Doctor John Watson started living with him. Apparently they were together, the landlady assumed. She had heard a few noises... but she was happy to see Sherlock Holmes so happy with someone.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent?" Obviously. "The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"

* * *

><p>"Harry's short for Harriet."<p>

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Harry's your sister."

A sister John had stopped seeing since he returned from Afghanistan and decided to make a fresh start. "What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!"

"Sherlock! I could get killed!"

"Hello, freak." A woman with dark hair said and looked at the detective and John. "Who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock's eyes were on John's and he couldn't help but smile a bit. Colleagues, really? That was new.

"Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend."

Sarcasm.

"A colleague? How do _you_ get a colleague?" the woman asked surprised and then turned to John. "What, did he follow you home?"

More or less. "Would it be better if I just waited and..."

"No. Come with me."

That phrase had escaped their lips so many times by now.

Stop with the innuendo, John thought.

And soon both were heading to the house where apparently a woman had been found dead. But as soon as they got to the pavement a man, a ratted-faced man was standing there, blocking the entrance, his arms folded over his chest, a disapproving look on his face.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

That was Anderson?

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear," John heard Sherlock taking a deep breath, as if trying to smell something. "Is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that," Anderson said angrily.

Sherlock snorted. "Your deodorant told me that."

What? "My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of _course_ it's for men! _I'm_ wearing it!"

Ha.

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson and Donovan shared a look.

John looked Donovan blushing.

That was funny.

He had witnessed Sherlock's deductions, had seen his magnificent being deducing and observing. That's what he liked about the detective, his cleverness, his brains.

Brainy's the new sexy.

"Oh, and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply -"

"I'm not implying _anything._" Sherlock turned to make himself sure John was following but stopped for a moment to shot one last look to Donovan. "_  
><em>I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Donovan was horrified to say the least. When John waked past Donovan he looked at her knees and yes, she 'scrubbed' Anderson's floor apparently.

"What's he doing here?!"

Sherlock put some gloves on. "He's with me."

"But he -?"

"I _said_ he's with me."

Lestrade eventually accepted 'The Man' walking into the crime scene with Sherlock and when he started to lead the way upstairs to see the dead woman, Sherlock squeezed John's soft hand and smiled.

Everything's OK.

* * *

><p>"Shut up."<p>

John looked at Lestrade. He was thinking.

And when Sherlock was trying to observe, and people was thinking around him, it was annoying.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

John had already been told off once.

But then they watched Sherlock going down to the floor and examining the body.

There were plenty of things, John knew. By just looking you could find nothing. But Sherlock, such a strange clever creature, knew he had to observe and then he'd find all the clues.

"Got anything?"

"Not much."

Cheeky bastard.

"She's German. 'Rache' it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shut the door close just in Anderson's face. "Yes, thank you for your input."

"So she's German?"

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

John frowned. "Sorry – obvious?"

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade asked.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

Ah, that was a sort of kinky thing they had. Sherlock called him 'Doctor Watson' when they were nothing but tangled limbs, swollen lips, a few moans had already left their lips and -

"Of the message?"

"Of the body." Sherlock fixed his eyes on John's. "You're a medical man."

"Wait no," Lestrade stepped into the moment. "Are you seriously asking him? We have a whole team right outside."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Another thing John liked. "They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here," then Greg turned to John. "And _you_ too."

"Because you need me."

Lestrade nodded and sighed. That was awfully true. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"Doctor Watson."

John looked at Sherlock. "Hmm?"

The detective turned to Greg and looked at him. A 'leave us alone' look.

And Greg understood. "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself."

As soon as they were left alone, both went down to the floor.

"Well?"

"What am I doing here?" John asked very softly, his blue eyes on Sherlock's. "Sherlock -"

Sherlock cut him off. "Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping Mrs Hudson with her basement."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

And? Well, he had seen worst, really.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go _deeper_."

Oh.

John smiled, stuck his tongue out and licked his thin lips seductively. In the way he knew Sherlock liked. In the way he knew _weakened_ Sherlock.

"As soon as this finishes, you'll find yourself on your knees, Mr Holmes," John said softly, but with authority. "And I'll go as deep as you want."

Sherlock's pupils dilated and his pulse quickened.

He couldn't wait to solve this case, this case of a woman in pink clothes lying death to go back home and just be with John.

"Oh."

"What?"

Sherlock smiled. "Pink."

* * *

><p><strong>Note: It was just I thing I wanted to write, you know, just for fun. I'm not really sure if I should continue, but reviews will be highly appreciated.<strong>


	11. Twice

**Thank you for voting and for the support. This story will continue! Hope you like this one - apologies in advance for my mistakes. ****Thanks**** for reading and please, review!**

* * *

><p>"Moriarty."<p>

John looked up from his plate. "Hmm?"

"The cabbie. He said Moriarty."

Ah. Jim. Yeah, John knew him. A bit of a trouble, he was. Quite a dangerous man, quite a fun bloke too. Quite a powerful man who could tear your world apart by a mere snap of his fingers.

But try to make fun of Jim Moriarty and you are in serious trouble.

"What about him?"

"You met him."

"Yeah." Sherlock looked at him waiting for further explanations and John had to roll his eyes. "Once." The detective coked an eyebrow. "Twice... a few times, yeah."

Sherlock had to try very hard not to curl his long fingers around John's wrist and make him spill everything he knew about Jim Moriarty. Sherlock was aware - in fact he knew that Jim had helped John to play games with him, when the only thing John wanted was to play a power game with the most important family in Britain and he came in the way.

The mere thought of Jim and John together made Sherlock sick. Awfully jealous. Angry.

Damn. "Did you fuck him?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

Jim Moriarty was indeed a criminal mastermind – Brainy was the new sexy.

And John loved the brainy type. But not Jim. Jim was too fucked up. Jim was what John would never accept as a client: too intelligent, too clever, too twisted, too much of a criminal for him – too dangerous.

"Shit, Sherlock," John said and sipped more of his wine. "I didn't."

Sherlock glared at him. No, he didn't. John and Jim were not intimate then. "But you wanted to."

"God, no."

"Why?"

"Are you seriously asking?"

The detective shrugged. "You played games with me. He helped you to escape. And you offered him those photographs."

"And?" John asked, still not sure of what Sherlock was implying. "What does that have to do with –"

"Jim does _everything_ with a purpose." Sherlock said, his expression serious, not kind or warm as John was used to. "He wouldn't have helped you for free."

John licked his lips and looked away before looking back at Sherlock. How can you tell the person you've been with for months that you, somehow, helped to destroy him? Because that's what John did. Jim wanted to play games with Sherlock, John had photographs and he wanted to have fun. When Jim said there was someone he needed to burn, John gladly accepted the deal without knowing the man Jim wanted to kill, to destroy, was no one else but Sherlock Holmes.

However, after telling him this, John watched Sherlock expression softened and in the way back home they hold hands.

"Tell me he never touched you," Sherlock gasped, his hands on the headboard – God, he needed to get hold of something. "Tell me you didn't –"

John leaned forward and licked his earlobe. "I told you."

"John –"

"You've been a very naughty boy, Mister Holmes," John wrapped a hand in the man's hard member and stroked it at the same time he slammed his hips forward. "Don't forget I have a riding crop."

Sherlock felt himself contracting. It was too much. He just couldn't think of how long they had been doing this; John fucking him so hard, touching him, bringing him so close to the climax and then neglecting his hard cock and making him beg.

Twice.

"John."

"What?"

Sherlock slammed his hips back and moaned loudly. "I'm close, _please_."

"I said twice, Sherlock."

"John –"

John loosened his touch on the detective's hard, throbbing member. "_Twice_."

"John, _please_!"

"That's more like it," John chuckled and within a few moments brought his lover to climax.

It wasn't until John felt himself slowly drifting off to sleep when he felt Sherlock's curly head on his chest and his lips on his bare skin.

"You said he wanted to destroy me."

"Hmm."

"You helped him."

Well, he could no longer deny it, right? "Yeah."

"Why?"

Ah. John ran a hand down the man's broad, strong back and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Such an intimate, warm gesture – something he hadn't done in years. John often wondered if it was love what they felt for each other or mere lust, desire.

They had been living together for months. Sherlock's landlady was convinced he was a doctor and that he worked at nights when he actually never left Baker Street until now. His life was in danger and he couldn't afford going out, let alone getting himself killed. Even though Sherlock got Mycroft's word that nothing will happen to him, John had his own doubts.

So that's how John spent all those months locked inside Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes.

The longest John had ever been with a client was a whole day. But that's because the lady, and her husband, had paid him a high sum of money that ensure them long hours of exciting and twisted games.

However, Sherlock was no longer a client. Actually, Sherlock had never paid for all the things they had done.

Blimey. John chuckled because after all those moths together, after all their nights, mornings and afternoons of sex, sex, sex and sex he should be rich by now.

But sex wasn't all. John appreciated the tea, even though he was the one doing it. John liked to wear comfy clothes and not smart suits anymore. He rather liked how Sherlock looked with them. The man had the gift of nature – long legs, long arms. Nature had only given John the gift of being good for sex but short.

Height, obviously.

What John loved was their talks; hearing Sherlock talking, deducing, working… That was something no one ever done before. No client had spoken to him like Sherlock did. No client made actually the effort to please him too.

No client had ever worried if he orgasmed or not.

Well, one did. The young, sweet and nice majesty, obviously.

"You got in the way," John said, sincerely. "I was playing a very exciting game with one of the most powerful families in the world. I was having fun, you know." There was no point denying it anymore. "And you had to stick your nose."

Sherlock chuckled. "Despite your lack of imagination, you were doing it rather well. They were scared."

"Lack of imagination? _Really_?"

"What do you wanted?

"It was a power play."

"They offered you everything."

"It was just a game."

Sherlock snorted. "And it almost got you killed."

"I promised Mrs Hudson I'd help her with her basement," John yawned and turned to his side of the bed. "After all the noise we did I don't think she believes my story of being a GP and taking night shifts."

"She knows."

"Does she?"

"She found your riding crop."

"Ah," John chuckled and closed his blue eyes. "I thought she had seen the marks on your arse."

If only they knew what was coming.

John would have regretted staying with Sherlock. Because no one makes fun of Jim Moriarty.

And no one lives long enough to tell what it's like.


	12. Challenged

**AN: Apologies for any mistake.**

* * *

><p>"Okay, let me see if I get this straight," John paused to collect his own thoughts. "James Moriarty got into the Tower of London, the Bank of England and Pentonville prison and he walks free?"<p>

On the other line, Sherlock realised what was happening now.

"John, leave Baker Street."

"What?"

"Leave Baker Street now –"

James Moriarty was standing in the doorway or their flat and was pressing his index finger against his lips – gesturing John not to say a word. The Master immediately turned his phone off and welcomed his guest.

"May I?"

"Kettle just boiled."

John gestured Jim to sit on his armchair, but the biggest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen sat on Sherlock's. Moriarty was clearly challenging him.

"Most people knock, you know."

"I'm not most people."

"I know." Jim smiled at him. "Tea?"

"Please."

It was true that kettle had just boiled. It was also true that John had prepared two tea cups, milk and sugar for two: for Sherlock and for himself. But Sherlock's chair was occupied and Sherlock's tea cup was in James Moriarty's hands.

John knew that after this meeting finished and before Sherlock came back, he would have to wash that cup and use disinfectant and clean Sherlock's armchair. Because seriously, James fucking Moriarty was in their flat sitting at Sherlock's armchair and drinking fucking tea from Sherlock's fucking favourite tea cup and damn, John was sure Sherlock could be capable of burning his own armchair and throwing his own tea cup to the bin if it was necessary.

Sherlock was weird.

But James Moriarty was weirder.

The Master then realised he should have never associated himself with that guy. But oh, Jim was fun. Jim knew all the buttons John had to press to have the greatest Sherlock Holmes against the wall.

Playing with Sherlock had been so much fun. John couldn't remember when was the last time he had such great fun before. Ah yes, when he punished, slept, and played with that young thing John knew was going to be his Queen someday.

Playing a power play with the most powerful family in Britain had been fun. But playing with Sherlock was far better.

Playing with James Moriarty was dangerous, though.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Admit you're a tiny bit please with me here..." James Moriarty smiled creepily as he sipped more of John's tea. "and with me back on the streets."

John smiled. "Not a bit actually. We've got," he checked on his watch. "Fifteen minutes give or take before Sherlock comes back."

"Oh! But that's enough time for you and me to discuss some business."

"We have nothing to discuss."

"I don't think so, Johnny boy." Jim sang. "Do you know how I made my way out? Or you're waiting for Sherlock to come home and tell you all about it?"

John showed no emotion. "Got to the jury, of course."

"I got into the Tower of London. You think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

"Cable network."

"Ah. Sherlock's cleverness seems to be contagious."

"I'm not stupid," John sipped his tea. "I know your ways."

Jim smiled proudly. "Of course you know my ways. You know what I like... as you know every person has their pressure point – someone that they want to protect from harm."

"Stay away from Sherlock."

"Or what?"

"I'll kill you."

"Oh, look at you!" Jim laughed as he placed the empty back back to its saucer on the small table next to his armchair. "The knight in the shinning armour! You really think that attitude and the gun you have in your pocket are going to stop me?"

John nodded. "Yes."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, Johnny boy, but I'm not," James leaned forward. "You _owe_ me something."

Ah, that. John should have known it. Of course. You don't make business with James fucking Moriarty and leave services unpaid, no.

Many, many months ago John Watson, professionally known as 'The Master', dialled the number of the biggest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen and asked him for an appointment. Some days afterwards, John was sitting across Jim Moriarty and he was showing him the pictures of himself and that young pretty little thing who, he was sure, in some years was going to be their queen. Playing with the most influential family of Britain was fun, but John knew he was being chased.

John got to the conclusion that strings were being pulled, political advisers were being hired and spies were on his heels. And then, John discovered the detective in the funny hat, Sherlock Holmes, was behind his steps.

It hadn't been difficult for John to know when Sherlock was summoned to The Palace. The Master knew the butler and what he liked after all. But the rest of the story is practically history, John and Sherlock played a game for months and after so long, The Master preferred to forget it all.

But you can't forget your debts.

And John knew he was fucked up.

"I can pay you."

"I don't want money."

"Well, I'm not going to give him to you."

"But that was part of our deal, Johnny boy," Moriarty took a little knife from his pocket an started carving an apple he had taken when he got into the flat. "Think of the thousands of pounds I've spent in this little game: your hiding places... the camera phone... the pictures I could've used and toppled the most powerful family in Britain. All of that in exchange for our favourite detective."

John swallowed. "I can pay you back."

"You know money is not what I want," Jim whispered. "What I want is Sherlock Holmes dead."

"You'll have to kill him over my dead corpse."

"Is it a challenge?"

"Yes."

"Ha! Careful with what you ask of me, _Master_. That's the problem – the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet?" John finished his tea and looked into Jim's dark, hateful eyes and remained silent. "What's the final problem? I did tell you... but did you listen?"

The Master sighed. "Clever, Jim."

"Speaking of clever, have you told your little boyfriend yet?"

"Told him what?"

"About how you stole that key from that MOD man and gave it to me and now I can open every door I want," Jim leaned back on Sherlock's armchair. " I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I _own_ secrecy. Nuclear codes? I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king and honey, you should see me in a _crown_."

John frowned. "You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do."

"And your sweetheart was helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities, terrorist cells. They all want me." Jim ate a slice of apple and smiled at John, seductively. "Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex."

"Why you doing al this?"

"Because I want to solve the final problem. It's gonna start very soon, John. The fall."

"You're sick."

Jim stood up and shrugged. "When you do business with me, you ought to pay the price. You really thought I was going to let you and Sherlock have a normal life? No, sir. I gave you immunity and the price was Sherlock's life. If I don't have him, I'll have you."

John also stood up and looked into Jim's defiant eyes. "Whenever you want, Jimmy."

"I'll take your word, _Master_."

Two minutes after Jim left, Sherlock was back.

John didn't let him get to their room. They fucked in the kitchen and little they cared if the neighbours or their landlady listened. John made Sherlock his again as if there was no tomorrow and promised him they would always be together.

Promises are meant to be kept.

And John was a man who kept his promises.


	13. How many

**AN: Apologies for any mistake.**

* * *

><p>Two months later, they had settled again into a new routine and it wasn't very much different from the old one. They continued sharing a bed, they continued watching Bond films - John's favourites - every Friday night and they continued buying supper at the Chinese down the road every now and then. Sherlock continued taking domestic cases following John's advice, and John continued lying to Mrs Hudson about that job he didn't have and had never had, as a doctor who worked night shifts at the hospital.<p>

For instance, for two months, that is, sixty days give or take, John had made love to Sherlock around more than twenty times - give or take.

Sherlock got in a secret relationship with two men at the same time: one was called Ben and the other was Jerry. John introduced them to Sherlock one Friday night. Tired of Chinese, John got himself and Sherlock some ice cream and Sherlock sort of fell in love with it.

Sherlock gained three to five pounds during those two months.

During those two months Sherlock learned what was to lie down every morning next to the person you hold dear. He always woke up before John and spent long minutes, some times hours, staring at the man lying naked next to him.

Sherlock noticed John had lots of moles all down his back and legs. His pale skin was always so smooth, and letting his finger tips travel all over John's skin, Sherlock wondered how many lovers John had had, how many ever got to touch him like he did and how many had the fortune to be touched, caressed, kissed and loved by John Watson.

It wasn't difficult for the detective to make some calculations and get an approximate number of how many lovers John had had. But he rejected the idea. He knew he would be sick if he ever deduced. Not like Sherlock would be sick because John had slept with so many people before, no. Sherlock was going to be sick because he was jealous and he wanted John for himself and himself only. Even though he was the only one, Sherlock did not want to compete against those women and men who had the pleasure and fortune to meet John's lips, his hands, his body.

"You're staring."

"I can't help it."

John tossed until he was lying on his back. He yawned, stretched his arms and looked at his favourite detective with a smile. "Slept well?"

"You're bisexual."

"Yes."

Sherlock noticed John answered straight away and didn't hesitate. "How can you find women pleasant to be with?"

"Well," John chuckled. "You've never been with one."

"So?"

"There you have it," The Master yawned again and rubbed his blue orbs. "They're not that bad, you know." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you want to try it can be arranged."

Sherlock smiled a bit. "Most kind of you."

"Hey, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"You're the only one."

"I know."

"But you don't trust me. Not _fully_," John sat on their bed. He rested his back against the not so comfy headboard and sighed. "You'll never forgive my alliance with Moriarty, will you."

"I'll never forgive you being so close to him," Sherlock kissed him deeply and so violently John thought he might get some bruises afterwards. "You showed him what you can do..." Sherlock pushed John further against the headboard of their bed as their mouths clashed. "You let him in here, our home."

Suddenly, John was trapped and Sherlock Holmes was kissing him so feverishly and so violently he thought he might die. "Sherlock -"

"I can't stand thinking of you and him."

"I told you nothing _ever_ happened between us."

Sherlock looked down at the man he loved. "How many have had you?"

John said nothing.

"It makes me crazy..." Sherlock's hand as on John's most intimate place of his body. "Thinking what you do to me is the same you did to all of them..."

"Sherlock," John cupped the detective's face and kissed him softly, soothingly. "All the others meant nothing to me, you hear me? _Nothing_."

The made love that morning as if there was no tomorrow and because indeed, there was not going to be a 'tomorrow' for them. Had they known it was the last time they were making love, Sherlock would have kissed John more. He would have caressing him more and he would have definitely begged for mercy once, twice, three of maybe four or five times.

Had John known it was the last time they were making love, he would have teased Sherlock more and more. The Master would have practised on the detective all the things he knew about making love.

Had they known it was the last time they were making love, they would have said 'I love you' even more.

* * *

><p>"Since when my dearest brother reads this?" Sherlock asked as he took a look at The Sun. The paper was on Mycroft posh and well polished and loved desk and apparently there was someone - a woman, who knew all about him and was doing a big exposé on Saturday. He was famous, ha!<p>

Mycroft poured himself a drink and sat across his young brother. "Caught my eye."

"Thought cakes only caught your eye." Sherlock beamed a bit at the sight of his brother hiding a piece of cake behind some books piled on his desk. "Apparently she knows I was expelled from school when I was eight." Sherlock said, throwing the paper to the floor and not caring to place it back to its original place. "I'd love to know where she got her information."

Mycroft chuckled. "Someone called Brook. Recognise the name?"

Sherlock shrugged and Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Blame the cocaine."

"That's not why I asked you here."

Suddenly, the politician, such a profession Sherlock hated with all his being, took a pile of folders and started handing them to the detective one by one. Sherlock opened the first folder and found a picture of a man he had never seen before in his life.

"Don't know him?"

"No."

"Never seen his face before?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't store useless information."

"He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from you."

"Hmm. Will tell my landlady. She'll like to organise a little party with drinks for the neighbours. Fell free _not_ to come."

Mycroft smiled sarcastically. "Not sure you'll want to." Then, he handed Sherlock another folder. "Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly-trained killer living less than twenty feet from your front door."

"Great location, though high priced flats."

"Sherlock -"

"Stop spying on me, Mycroft. I'm already a grown man, not a teenager any more -"

Mycroft cut off Sherlock by handing him one last folder. "Dyachenko, Ludmila. Russian killer. She's taken the flat opposite." Sherlock raise an eyebrow._"Four_ top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. Anything you care to share with me?" The detective said nothing. "It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it? It's textbook, Sherlock."

"You think it's Moriarty -"

"Moriarty and that sex worker you are fostering," Mycroft finally revealed.

Sherlock's face changed. He was not going to sit there, in his brother's hideous and awful office listening to him insulting John. That was exactly what Mycroft was doing: insulting John.

John could never be Moriarty's ally.

Not again.

"How dare you."

"Tell me why four top trained assassins are living all around you," Mycroft chuckled. "Because it wasn't me who hired them to protect you, Sherlock."

"John would never -"

"How much do you know about him?" Mycroft inquired. "He's for hire, Sherlock. Did you really think a man who has sold his body for most of his life would suddenly stop because of you? _Please_. I thought you clever, dear brother. Look at you now. Domestic bliss suits you: you've put on... what? Ten pounds?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Seven."

"Eight and a half."

"Leave me alone," Sherlock said, standing up and heading to the door. "I'm not a child any more."

Mycroft chuckled. Sherlock could not be a child any more.

But damn, Sherlock was still so naive.

"We both know what's coming, Sherlock."

The detective close the door of his brother's office shut and walking back home, he realised it was Friday and surely John had already selected another Bond film for them to watch and had asked Mrs Hudson to go and get them more Ben&Jerry's ice-cream.

But all those thoughts vanished when Sherlock, walking across his street, saw two police cars parked outside and police officers getting inside 221 Baker Street.


	14. A footprint

**AN: Apologies for any mistake.**

**Please review!**

* * *

><p>John was going through the pages of "Grimm's Fairy Tales" when all the police officers, Sally, Lestrade, Anderson and a woman in charge of the children's room moved to the boys' rooms. Two kids were kidnapped and their father, a very important ambassador, asked the police to work with Sherlock Holmes to investigate and find their children.<p>

It was still incredible Sherlock was still working - that people was still hiring him after the whole Moriarty court case and all. Sherlock had given the jury, the judge and the whole country enough proof to show James Moriarty was for hire, that he was the biggest criminal mastermind the world has ever seen and that he should remain in jail for the rest of his life.

Weeks later Jim Moriarty was back on the streets. John wanted to get in touch with that sweet little posh thing he used to see (before Sherlock came along) and ask her what the hell was going on with her grandmother and if she didn't care this man, James Moriarty, had taken her crown and jewels and wore them even.

Still, John was happy Sherlock had jobs. Jobs, cases and mystery kept him calm and happy. And John loved seeing his dear happy.

"The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door..." Lestrade nodded and watched Sherlock moving all about the boy's little space within the boy's room. "Someone approaches the door... someone he doesn't recognise, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon. What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" There were a few books piled on the boy's bedside. "This little boy... this particular little boy who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"

John closed the book he was looking at. "He'd leave a sign?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Get Anderson."

Anderson. Ah, John watched Anderson and Sherlock working together and trying to find any signs the little boy might have left. The Master couldn't help but chuckle every time Anderson seemed to make something out of the clues they had found and Sherlock telling him it was very obvious.

Apparently the boy used some oil and managed to leave a trace. They found his and the kidnapper's footprints.

"Tells us nothing after all."

"You're right, Anderson," Sherlock seemed to agree. "nothing."

John wanted to laugh when he saw Anderson's face - somewhat relieved.

"Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace."

Sherlock was all smiles and John could have sworn his favourite detective could even sing and jump and beam like a little boy who has just been allowed to open his presents before Christmas.

"Having fun?"

"Starting to."

"Don't do the smiling."

Sherlock lifted his head and met John's eyes. "Not good?"

"Kidnapped children?" John asked him back. "Would you be smiling if your children had been kidnapped in the place you thought the safest for them?" Sherlock just shrugged. "Just think, Sherlock."

"I don't have to. I won't have children."

"Can't you feel just a little bit of empathy?"

Sherlock frowned. "No. Problem?"

"Yes. They are children, Sherlock. The ambassador asked you to find them, not to laugh at his boy's footprint on the floor!"

"I don't question the way you manage your business, do I, _Master_?" Sherlock whispered to him. "if you don't like it, leave."

John pretended he didn't hear that. "I won't leave you alone."

"I'm not a child."

"Moriarty -"

"I can take care of myself."

* * *

><p>"Alkaline."<p>

"Thank you, John."

"_Molly_."

"Yes."

"Molly," John called her name from the table across Sherlock's. "D'you know where can I get something decent to eat?"

Molly left Sherlock's side and smiled at Sherlock's new friend, a kind man who was a doctor and who seemed to be very nice. "The cafeteria downstairs."

"Not crap food, I take it?" John asked with a grim.

"No. Just avoid the pasta."

"OK. Wanna come? Seems Sherlock can do without us."

To Sherlock's surprise, Molly left the textbooks she was carrying and all the tests tubes she was labelling for him and then, she and John were getting ready to leave.

John took his coat and then, he turned to Sherlock. "Want anything?" And just when Sherlock was about to open his mouth and say something, John cut him off. "It's okay, I know you don't."

"Actually -"

"I know you don't," John cut him off and, as the gentleman he was, he opened the door for Molly to leave first. "Will be right back."

A sandwich could do, of course. John had had worse and a sandwich from a hospital cafeteria wasn't that bad, really. Molly chose pork and they found an empty table for two near the windows, where they could have a pleasant look of the city.

"So... you're Sherlock's boyfriend?"

"No."

John noticed Molly blushed a bit. "Sorry. I'm asking silly questions."

"It's OK," the doctor gave him a reassuring smile. "Sherlock told me you're a friend."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

John swallowed a bit of his sandwich and frowned at her reaction. "What?"

"Nothing," Molly smiled at him shyly. "It's just... I didn't know Sherlock considered me his friend."

"I know what you mean. He can be a dick sometimes!"

The pathologist smiled and ate her food. It was an awkward situation really. She was having lunch with a man she had never seen before and he was all smiles with her. John was not flirting with her, Molly knew it, but there was something about this man, about this particular man that made Molly hesitate a bit.

To begin with, this man, John, had the loveliest eyes Molly had ever seen. He was good looking, yeah, that's true. Molly felt she could fancy him, but he was a bit too short for her.

But still, there was something about this man that made Molly understand Sherlock.

"You look sad," Molly suddenly said, as soon as she saw John had finished his sandwich. "when you think he can't see you."

"Pardon?"

"You look sad when you think Sherlock can't see you. Are you okay?"

John frowned. "You don't know me."

"No, but I can see when someone's sad. You're sad," Molly insisted. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

The Master was caught completely unprepared. Due to his job, he had mastered a wide range of skills that made him a complete and a damn good actor. For instance, he could fake emotions, reactions, tears, laughs, friendliness, sadness, angriness and, of course, orgasms.

However, with this woman, with this particular woman, John never felt the need of pretending - playing someone else. He could just be himself. Sherlock had once told him about Molly. For what John knew, Molly was a young woman in her early thirties who lived alone, had no parents, a few friends, a cat named Toby and once Moriarty used her and played his boyfriend when he was actually going undercover within Bart's.

Sherlock said she was his 'friend' because she merely let him use her lab, she gave him body parts, eyeballs, toes, fingers and because with a smile or maybe a compliment he could get anything he wanted from her. John pitied Molly. It was crystal clear that Molly liked Sherlock. John didn't know whether it was love or not, but this young little thing was completely into Sherlock.

He wanted to tell her he was more than Sherlock's friend but he didn't want to hurt the woman's heart. Many years in the business taught John a woman's heart should never be broken. A woman's heart was a very deep sea of secrets and a complete mystery to men. Yet, he loved women. John came from one, as everyone else, and he respected them. Women were fragile and must be loved, that was his motto. That's what led him to break the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants - separately. The novelist was nuts. The woman was a broken woman who just needed a good shag and god, he gave it to her.

But back to Molly, John wished he could just tell her he was Sherlock's boyfriend. Or maybe, John thought, he could take her to bed and fix her heart. That worked a few times and John knew how to do it. But no. He had told Sherlock he was the only one and it was true. Sherlock was the only one.

"You can see me."

Of course she could see him. She was just there, sitting across him and looking at him with her sad eyes.

"I don't count," Molly gave him a weak smile. "What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me_._" John opened his mouth to speak, but soon Molly shook her head at herself. "No, I just mean... I mean if there's anything you need... it's fine."

What? "What could I need from you?"

But Molly just gave him a reassuring smile and stood up from her chair. "Nothing. I dunno. You could probably say thank you, actually."

"Thank you?"

"I'll go and help Sherlock before he burns down my lab."

And with that, John was left alone with nothing to say.

* * *

><p>John watched Sherlock's face the moment he exited the room. The little girl screamed and screamed and no one could stop her.<p>

She feared Sherlock.

But why?

"Well, don't let it get to you. I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do _most_ people." Lestrade said, trying to cheer Sherlock up. "Come on."

John was walking behind Sherlock when Sally started questioning the whole thing. "Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint. It's really amazing."

"Thank you."

"Unbelievable."

"What d'you want?" John asked, exasperatedly. This made Lestrade and Sherlock turn.

Sally chuckled. "A _footprint_. He found those kids using _only_ a footprint. He finds them and then the little girl screams."

The three men said nothing.

"CSI Baker Street," Sally smiled.

John placed a hand in the small of Sherlock's back and led the way outside. They said nothing on their way outside. Several policemen watched them leaving and several stopped doing their tasks and watched the men, the consulting detective and that guy he was now hanging with - that man people believed was his lover.

"Don't listen to her. She's just jealous." Sherlock remained silent. "Sherlock -"

"She's right."

"What?"

"This is my cab." Sherlock got into the cab that had pulled near him. "You get the next one."

"Why?"

"You're _distracting_ me."

Inside the cab, Sherlock remembered Mycroft's words. Moriarty was going to strike any time soon.

But not only Moriarty.

Moriarty and John.

John could never... And then, there he was on the screen.

Jim Moriarty was holding what seemed to be a colourful book - a children's book, and he was smiling at him.

_"Hullo. Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot..."_


	15. A fraud

**AN: Thanks for following and reading!**  
><strong>Apologies for any mistake!<strong>

* * *

><p>"And then the girl screams her head off when she sees him... a man she has never seen before - unless she <em>had<em> seen him before."

No. It couldn't be. No, no, and no. Sherlock Holmes was a good man. Lestrade knew it. Greg Lestrade was so sure of it he knew he would put his hand in the fire because he was so sure Sherlock Holmes was a good detective.

"What's your point?"

"You know what my point is," Sally looked into Greg's eyes. "You just don't wanna think about it."

Greg shook his head. "You're not _seriously_ suggesting he's involved, are you?"

"Yes!"

Anderson stepped into the discussion. "We have to entertain the possibility."

"He got it all from a footprint. A _footprint_, Greg," Sally insisted. "And that girl's just said he was the one who took her and her brother. He's been doing it all along."

DI Greg Lestrade rubbed his forehead, worriedly. There had to be a mistake. Greg knew Sherlock. They were friends. Greg had seen the worst of Sherlock and he was quite sure he could never be a fraud.

Greg had known Sherlock since he was a young thing of twenty something, high on cocaine and other substances too. Lestrade had also seen Sherlock getting clean. Sherlock had given him a place to stay when his wife left. Greg was there and he had seen Sherlock suffering for John Watson, The Master, that man Greg heard had made many men and women lose their hearts for him.

Then, why was it then that... why did the girl scream?

Why was it that everything pointed at Sherlock?

* * *

><p>John followed Sherlock closely. The Master knew Moriarty's ways, of course. John was quite sure Moriarty would strike again soon. Very deep inside, John knew tonight was <em>the night<em>. Tonight was the night when many things would come out. Tonight someone was going to let the cat out of the bag and God, John wished he could stop it.

The Master pressed the phone to his ear and listened to his man's report. There were three of the four men he had hired near Baker Street. No signs of Moriarty yet. Then, there he saw them: Sherlock getting out of the cab and Moriarty on the wheel.

James Fucking Moriarty was driving the cab.

Once it stopped, John saw there he saw the bus coming.

"Ran after him, now!"

Sulejmani saved Sherlock from the bus. But once Sherlock was safe, and once the bus passed hitting no one, someone shot at John's man, at Sulejmani. The Master immediately left the cab he was in and ran to his lover. Sherlock was not hurt, there was a few bruises on his hands, but Sulejmani, who was one of John's men, died.

But that was the price John Watson had to pay to keep his beloved safe.

"That... it's him. It's him. Sulejmani or something." Sherlock said as he looked nervously at the pool of blood on the pavement. "Mycroft showed me his file. Albanian gangster. Two doors down from us."

"What?"

John was aware Mycroft had investigated all their neighbours, but still, he pretended to be surprised. Pretentiousness never worked with Sherlock Holmes. You could never pretend something and get away with it when Sherlock bloody Holmes could tell your entire life story by just looking the way you tie your shoelaces, or worse, when he already knows every patch of your skin and had made love to you countless times.

Still, John Watson, the doctor, soldier, the master of sex, the only one who could get Sherlock Holmes to beg pretended he didn't know he had trained assassins living next door and Sherlock bought it. Sherlock Holmes had no suspicions.

"He died because I shook his hand."

"What d'you mean?"

The detective didn't know what to say. "He saved my life but he couldn't touch me. Why?"

John had ordered Sulejmani to keep an eye on Sherlock. He had ordered the assassin to jump and keep Sherlock off the street because a bus was about to kill him. But John had never said Sulejmani he could not touch Sherlock, therefore, Moriarty was closer than he had initially thought he was.

Moriarty was trying to keep Sherlock alive, of course.

Running back to Baker Street, John took Sherlock's hand and both laced their fingers. It was the first time they were ever holding hands outside their flat - and showing the whole world they were a couple, that they were together.

Although it was late, there was no one in the streets, and the ones walking around weren't paying any attention to them, they held hands proudly, as if showing everyone they were two against the rest of the world.

Two against the world.

And nothing, not even Moriarty, was going to tear them apart.

Nothing.

Or that's what both thought.

But when they arrived, Sherlock found a camera and John realised they had always been watched. It didn't bother them, really. They mostly had sex in Sherlock's room after all. But what really troubled John was Greg's visit.

After the whole incident with the camera phone, the photographs of John with a member of the royal family and so on, Greg and John didn't exactly become friends, but they had an good relationship. John liked Greg, and he regarded him as one of Sherlock's few friends. John knew they could trust Greg, of course.

But tonight... tonight John realised something was troubling Greg and that something had to do with Sherlock.

"One photograph – that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch. This is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play. Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan."

Of course. John wanted to smile when he really got it. Moriarty had planted the idea in everyone's minds. Ha. He should have known it.

Moriarty was damn too clever.

But suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock stopped working on their computers and fixed his piercing eyes on him. "They'll be deciding."

"Deciding?"

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

"You think?"

"You should know it," Sherlock said, fixing his eyes on his computer. "Standard procedure."

John shook his head. "Should have gone with him. People will think -"

"I don't care what people think."

"You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."

"No, that would just make them stupid or wrong."

Ah. John had really missed their fights. He would question their relationship if there wasn't a daily dose of fights, a sulky Sherlock and some make up sex later.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're -"

And that was it. That was the moment Sherlock lifted his head and looked into his eyes and John feared he might have deduced all that he needed to know.

For one or two seconds before Sherlock said anything, John felt his heart pounding and fear invaded his body. He hadn't felt this fear since he almost got himself killed by those Afghans in the Middle East.

John feared Sherlock's eyes.

"That I am what?"

Don't say it. "A fraud."

"You're worried they are right."

"No."

"No?" Sherlock asked as he leaned back on his chair. "You've been playing a different character today."

John frowned. "What?"

"Asking me not to laugh at the children's kidnapping... then defending me in front of Sally. Something's bothering you."

"Of course something's bothering me. You know what's going on. Moriarty wants to make you look like a fraud and -"

"And you're helping him."

"What?"

"You have doubts."

"I know you're for real."

Sherlock shook his head. "A hundred percent?"

And then, for the last time that night, John was looking at Sherlock with sincere eyes. "I know what you like and all the buttons I have to press to make you beg," Sherlock gave him a very little smile. "And well, nobody could fake being such an annoying _dick_ all the time."


	16. Richard Brook

**AN: Thanks for following and reading!**  
><strong>Apologies for any mistake!<strong>

* * *

><p>"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."<p>

The detective had really missed that cold sensation of the handcuffs around his wrists. Really. Long before John Watson came along and tied him to his own bed, Sherlock had felt that cold sensation of the metal against his skin, brushing, almost hurting, almost leaving marks.

Of course they were taking him. The girl screamed her head off, the little brother said it was him apparently, Donovan the envious bitch had to start planting those doubts in everyone's head and now they were taking him.

The whole police team was queuing up to slap him. No, they were not slapping him. They were all looking at him, beaming, excited to finally arrest him and Sherlock, for a moment, regretted treating them as he had always done. Like shit. Oh.

"He's not resisting!" John almost shouted, angrily. "Why are you handcuffing him, he's not resisting!"

"It's all right, John."

"This is not all right! This is fucking ridiculous!"

Lestrade commanded the officer to take the detective downstairs and the last thing Sherlock saw was John angrily bellowing and telling everyone this was ridiculous, that they were making a mistake, that he was not the kidnapper, that he had been with him all the time, that he was innocent, that they had no right, that they were taking the wrong man and all that. Really. John could be really persuasive, very, if he wanted to, but Lestrade, his whole team and all the King's horses would never set him free.

Ah, John. Sherlock beamed a bit, in the darkness of the stairs, while all the police officers watched him descend the stairs, handcuffed.

John Watson, The Master, was begging Lestrade not to take him. Ah. Of course. John.

"Do not interfere or I shall arrest you too," Greg told John, sternly. "I mean it. I have proofs enough to take you too."

"You won't dare."

Greg snorted. "Excuse me?"

"I have to move a finger to get you out of the force forever, Lestrade." John almost whispered, so no one could hear them. "I know what every single one of your superiors like. I suggest you to choose your wars more wisely."

"And I suggest you to keep the fuck off and leave Sherlock alone. You're destroying him."

"Says who?"

"His friend," replied Greg. "All of this started when he met you. How _convenient_."

Greg turned and left. Every single police officer left - but Donovan.

Donovan. That bitch Sherlock hated and therefore, John hated too. Donovan, who once tried to ask Sherlock out - according to the detective. Donovan, that envious bitch who was looking for a promotion and was capable of doing anything to get it. Of course. John knew people like her. John knew, by experience, that women like Sally Bitch Donovan were not to be trusted and not even a very good shag could change her. Not like John was willing to any way.

"You done?"

"So you're the Freak's boyfriend."

"I'm not his boyfriend."

"Of course you are. You think we didn't know?" Donovan smiled a bit. "I bet he did all of this to impress you. Now ask yourself what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he can impress us all by finding them?"

"Leave."

A fat man, who apparently was Donovan, Lestrade and everyone's superior appeared, said Sherlock was a weirdo, and apparently thought he could get away with it.

John knew what that fat man liked. Not like John had slept with him, no. But he was the sort of bloke who liked it rough. Not men, no. Women.

He was an idiot.

Two minutes later John was handcuffed and taken downstairs with Sherlock.

"Joining me?"

"Yeah. Thought you may want some company tonight. They'll jail us together, hopefully."

Sherlock looked at him. "Didn't you know what he liked?" He asked, talking about the Chief Superintendant.

"I didn't sleep with every single member of the top of the NSY."

"Didn't you?"

"Just a few," John smirked a bit. Then, he noticed Sherlock was dully staring at the inside of one of the police cars. "So, what's the plan now?"

"I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape."

John looked confused. "What?"

And then, Sherlock had a gun, people started screaming, police officers were on his knees (how convenient), their neighbours were shouting and screaming and the Sherlock and John held hands and ran to their end.

There was no way John, being several inches shorter than Sherlock, could ran as fast as him. But he did it. John would never know how he did it, but he did it. They ran, the police lost them, and then, they were together in the dark allies of the streets panting and sweating and thinking where they could possibly go.

"Mycroft could help."

"A big family reconciliation? Now's not really the moment -" Sherlock turned and spotted a man peering around the corner. "We're being followed."

"What?"

"Is not the police... it's one of our neighbours."

Sherlock dragged John and then he started running.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to jump in front of that bus."

"What?"

They jumped, the man following them jumped too, they ended up, the three of them, lying on the pavement. They were breathless but still John could recognise the man. It was one of the killers he had hired to keep an eye on Sherlock. Apparently the police warned them and he totally forgot about them.

Now John had one of the killers he had hired in front of him and he hadn't given him any instructions.

"Tell me what you want from me." Sherlock demanded the killer, but when he got no answers, he grabbed him by the collar of his coat and shook him slightly. "Tell me!"

From behind Sherlock, John shook his head.

"Moriarty." The Russian killer said.

"He sent you?"

And then, three gunshots rang out, the killer fell to the floor dead, and Sherlock was now clueless.

"We need to get back into the flat and search."

John frowned. "Wait - why?"

"Moriarty left something there... a code."

"The police is there."

Sherlock bit his lip and suddenly remembered. "We need to get Rich Brook."

"Who is he?"

* * *

><p>Kitty Riley, another bitch like Donovan who needed a good shag and apparently was getting it from Moriarty.<p>

"He hired me."

"What?"

"Mr Watson, please Master, please tell him!"

Sherlock's eyes were on John's, who was angrier than ever. According to Moriarty he was not Moriarty but Rich Brook, a storyteller featured on CBBC who was famous for his storytelling and all the fucking children in Britain loved him and then Kitty was showing Sherlock clippings from different newspapers featuring this Rich Brook and then Sherlock doubted.

John saw that. The doubt.

How could he.

"You had snipers on me and Lestrade - you're a criminal!"

"He hired me," Moriarty-Rich Brook almost begged to be believed. "Master Watson, please tell him, please, Master, please, please!"

And then, when John was about to punch him the rat escaped, Kitty told Sherlock it was the end and then both men were standing in the middle of the street, with no clue of what to do, let alone, what could happen next.

"He was lying."

"Hmm."

"Sherlock..."

"I need to think."

"No, you're not going anywhere," John said, firmly, using that commanding, straight voice he only reserved for their bed moments. "Sherlock -"

The detective escaped from John's reach and walked away.

And there was only one place he could go.

And there was one person John knew he had to see if he wanted Sherlock to be safe.


End file.
